Honor Among Thieves: The Unwilling Nightingale
by MadameHyde
Summary: Tiberia Morwyn has been cracking skulls for the Stormcloaks ever since she took care of Alduin, but her latest assignment, infiltrating the Thieves Guild, leaves her wondering what, exactly, she stands for, and who, exactly, she stands with. When her past catches up to her present, it's all she can do to hunker down before the firestorm.
1. The Assignment

"_Absolutely not!" _I thundered. The rafters shook under the force of my Thu'um—my shout—but I didn't care. There was no way in Oblivion I was going back there. Not back to Riften. Not even for Ulfric Stormcloak.

The Jarl of Windhelm slouched comfortably on his throne, clearly at ease. His Nordic drawl still echoed through the Palace of the Kings, but had only recently been chased away by my accidental Thu'um (which I found odd, because I wasn't even using the dragon language). Ulfric himself was not a tall man, more stocky and strong in the Nord way. His blond hair was braided in parts the traditional way, his goatee was well-trimmed given the time of day, and as always, he had a steel war axe in his belt. But it was his eyes that unnerved me. Those dark eyes saw through to a man's core (or woman's, in my case), and could size up your worth in a matter of seconds.

"We know you hate the place," his steward, Jorleif, tried to placate me. "A lot of Dunmer do."

"But it is still Stormcloak territory," Ulfric's general and second-in-command, Galmar Stone-Fist, continued. Galmar was a big brute of a man, and always wore the Stormcloak officer's uniform, complete with the bear cap on his head that I so detested. He favored an iron battleaxe, which as always was slung across his back. He was getting on in years in comparison to Ulfric, his beard graying and his eyes always tired. But he was mentally astute as he'd ever been, hence why Ulfric still kept him around. "And needs to be held."

"I need someone I can trust down there," Ulfric tried to reason with me. "This… _problem… _has gone on long enough."

"Find someone else," I growled, making a herculean effort to keep my voice down. "_Anyone _else."

"There is no one else," Ulfric said ominously. "Believe me, I've gone through the ranks multiple times. I keep coming back to you."

"Morwyn, don't be unreasonable," Jorleif began to plead.

"We're in a war!" Galmar interrupted, slamming his fist down on the table as he spoke. "A soldier does what she's told!"

I whirled on Ulfric, coolly staring down those unnerving dark eyes of his with the sort of ease I only projected, never felt. "This war would be over in a week—two tops—if you'd just let me storm a few forts, crack a few skulls, and infiltrate Solitude. I could bring you General Tullius' head on a pike! Hell, I'll bring Elisif's too, since you were so kind as to widow her."

"Watch how you talk to your Jarl!" Jorleif sounded personally offended.

But Ulfric merely waved him off. "Morwyn," he said slowly, "you are too important to the war effort to be thrown off on suicidal missions. This is why I can't send you to just 'storm some forts, crack a few skulls.'" He threw my own words back at me.

Humph. As if that would faze me. "I'm the Dragonborn, Ulfric," I retorted. "If you don't think I can handle myself around a few Imperial idiots, what in Oblivion do you think I did in Sovngarde?"

My exploits concerning Alduin and my trip to Sovngarde were well known in Windhelm and the rest of Skyrim, which is why I felt no shame or boast in bringing it up. I had killed Alduin years ago, brought peace in that aspect back years ago, but Skyrim was still engulfed in this great civil war. Ulfric was like a dog with a tenuous grip on a juicy bone, but one that refused any help to get it. It was infuriating to watch, to be apart of. I may not be a Nord, but Skyrim is my home. That's why I joined the Stormcloaks in the first place.

"Morwyn," Ulfric said with greater force, "no man here denies your accomplishments as Dovahkiin, but this isn't a dragon we are trying to slay, but an Empire. A strong one, at that."

"Two weeks," I huffed, folding my arms over my chest.

"Oh, do hush up," said Wuunferth the Unliving, Ulfric's court wizard. The old man almost never showed up to war meetings (informal as this one was), and even Ulfric seemed surprised. Upon noticing everyone's shocked expressions, he sighed enormously. "Can't an old Nord cast spells in peace?" He huffed before stomping back to his quarters upstairs.

I almost laughed at that.

"Morwyn, we know your distaste for Riften," Ulfric began, "but I need you down there."

"Yes, yes, you've mentioned that," I said acidly. "You've yet to say why."

Ulfric lowered his voice to the point that I nearly had to strain to hear him. "The Thieves Guild is building a presence in Riften."

My brow furrowed. "That's it? You want me to keep an eye on some cursed thieves?" Everyone knew the Thieves Guild was running low on luck these days. It was falling apart at the seams.

"No," Galmar said, "we want you to _join _the Guild and break it apart from the inside."

"Is this some sort of joke? Very funny, accuse the Dunmer. I'm no thief."

"This isn't up to debate," Ulfric said firmly. "And no one accused you of _being _a thief. You're one of the few honest Dark Elves I've met, actually." I wasn't sure if that was an insult or not, so I let it pass without comment. "What we're saying is, join the Thieves Guild, earn their trust, and then break it. And Riften can be freed, once and for all."

That sounded way too easy. "What aren't you telling me?"

"This entire operation needs to be done in secret," Galmar told me. "We can't have all of Skyrim knowing their Dovahkiin is in the Thieves Guild."

Wait, this was starting to sound promising. "You mean to say, I'd move to Riften as a refugee from Morrowind, eh? Start off as a nobody?"

"It makes the most sense," Jorleif said, sounding like the epitome of reason. "No one will question another immigrant from Morrowind like they'd question a Nord moving _to _Riften. Besides, the city is close to the border. You'll blend in."

"There are few Dark Elves in Riften," I said, tightening my arms across my chest, thankful the Stormcloak Cuirass I wore was modest enough to do this.

"Aye, the last time you were there," Jorleif said gently. "Which was what, at least six or seven years ago? Before Alduin?"

"Roughly," I admitted.

"It is your duty as a Daughter of Skyrim to serve your Jarl," Galmar reminded me.

_He's not my Jarl, _I wanted to say. _He's the stubborn ass I work for. My Jarl is Balgruuf the Greater, in Whiterun. _But I didn't, because I rather enjoy life with my head firmly attached. "Since this was clearly decided without my consent," I said, voice dripping with loathing, "when do I leave?"

All three men looked down at their boots. "On the morrow," Jorleif finally offered.

"By the Nine!" I exclaimed. "You certainly don't waste time!"

"The sooner we stop this threat, the better," Ulfric said confidently. He's always so self-assured. Makes me wonder what would happen if he had to face a mistake.

"I still say we should be focusing on the Imperials," I said. "They're the real problem. We can take care of a ragtag group of thieves later."

"Keep in mind, you will be travelling as a poor refugee," Galmar continued, ignoring my interjection.

Then it hit me. "I'm going to have to leave all my _good _armor behind, aren't I?"

"It would look odd for a Dunmeri refugee to walk into Riften wearing Dragon armor and using Dawnbreaker," Jorleif said, an apologetic look on his face.

My face flattened out. "Guess I know what I'm doing tonight." _Figuring out which weapons I can take and use without raising suspicion._

"I'll send someone up to help you," Ulfric said. He knew what armor I was used to, and therefore was more apologetic than even Jorleif at this turn of events.

Fed up with the lot of them, I turned on heel left the hall without so much as being dismissed.

-)

"You should be good with plain old steel armor," the blacksmith's assistant, Hermir Strong-Heart, told me. "It's good old-fashioned Nord steel; you'll look like everyone else. And it's not too much worse than Orcish armor, which I know you also use."

"I suppose," I said. "What about glass? Is glass too extravagant?"

"You want to look_ less _Elfish, not _more, _if you want to keep the city on your good side,_" _she reminded me.

Blast, that was right. Nords hated anyone who wasn't a Nord. "Steel it is, then," I said gloomily, with a mental note to enchant it later.

"Cheer up," Hermir said, patting me uneasily on the shoulder, but trying to hide said unease. "You'll be serving the great Ulfric Stormcloak…"

I tuned her out as I went sifting through my swords. One of the few joys in my life I've found since becoming the Dragonborn is the random assortment of swords I get to use. I'll pick a new one for every fight, from Dawnbreaker to Orcish to Glass to Ebony and everything in between. I had promised myself I'd limit myself to two swords (I dual wield sometimes, and others I just use one and cast spells), but I was trying to figure out which two. Years of dungeon crawling meant a wide assortment to choose from. I eventually settled with an Elven and a Glass blade—both popular enough in Morrowind, but strong enough that I wouldn't break them.

I tuned in to Hermir's rant and found her still going strong. She's a good lass, that Hermir, but so enamored with Ulfric it made me a bit sick to listen to. _If you only knew, _I mused. _His temper, his pigheadedness, his inability to look past himself. _"Thank you for your help," I said to her, "but I do believe we're finished."

"Oh!" She glanced around, nodded at my choice of blades, then turned back to me. "Don't you need a shield? Or a bow?"

I shook my head. "I hate those things."

"And you've got a full set of steel armor?"

"Bracers, boots, and body, aye."

Hermir's brow furrowed. "Don't you need a helmet?"

I twirled a silver and moonstone circlet around my fingers. "I've got this instead."

She seemed even more confused for a moment, but then she understood. "For your magicka. Got it."

I smiled ruefully. "Need a bit of magical support, or I'll never get through this."

It wasn't too much later that she departed, and I wasted no time hustling down to Wuunferth's quarters to borrow his enchanting table. He doesn't mind my using it, so long as I bring my own soul gems. (To be honest, I think he kind of likes having another magician around. Skyrim must get lonely for Nord spellcasters.) I enchanted the steel armor for Destruction magic support and Magicka regeneration, the Glass sword for frost, and the Elven sword for sparks. The boots helped with stamina, and the bracers with alchemy. I was as ready as I'd ever be.

I was on my way back to my own quarters when I bumped into Ulfric himself. "Morwyn! Glad I caught you." He rummaged around his coat pockets a moment, then produced an Amulet of Talos. "This one was my father's, but I'd like you to have it." He held it out to me by the chain, a peace offering. "A true Daughter of Skyrim should have an Amulet of Talos."

The hammer-like design hung in the air, a weight between us. "Thank you," I said, taking it from his hand and carefully clasping it around my neck. "I…" I felt the power of the Thu'um pulse within me, and recoiled in shock. "What in Oblivion…?"

"I don't know what exactly it does," Ulfric said truthfully, "but it makes the Thu'um stronger."

I couldn't use the Thu'um and keep up my charade, but Ulfric had a point. It would remind me of whom I was—the Dovahkiin—not who I would have to become to make this work.

"Talos guide you," he said, embraced me briefly, and was off.

I was still puzzling over this random act of kindness from the Bear of Markarth when I reached my own quarters. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and couldn't help but wonder who it was that was staring back at me.

She had blue-gray skin, pointed ears, and fiercely red, almond-shaped eyes—but that was to be expected of a Dark Elf. She wore Nord steel armor, boots, and bracers, but looked uneasy in them, like she was unsure of how to move in this cumbersome armor. Two distinctly Elven blades were strapped to either hip, and orange war paint began under her eyes, and fell sharply to below her chin. Her hair was a deep brown, so much so it was almost black, and although pulled back to reveal the widow's peak so common to elves, it was braided and tied off like a Nord woman's.

The bizarre thing about her—me—was the face. It wasn't angular like an Elf's should be. No high cheekbones, slanted eyes, pointed chin for me. No, my face was more rounded off and squared away, like an Imperial, Breton, or a Nord. My coloring and body were entirely Dunmeri, but my face… my face was something else entirely.

I washed the war paint off before snuggling under the covers to ward off the chill that pervaded the Palace of the Kings, not to mention Windhelm itself. After a short prayer to Azura for wisdom and guidance, I slipped off into Vaermina's realm.


	2. Riften

**Disclaimer I forgot the last time: I own nothing but Tiberia and the people/places you don't recognize. Everything you do is the wonderful work of Bethesda.**

-)

The Riften marketplace was just as busy as I remembered, with all the stall owners shouting the superiority of their wares, beggars pleading for Septims, and the rumble of the blacksmith's forge in usage. I almost had to smile at that; Balimund, the Riften smith, was a good man. One of the few who, in my Dovahkiin days, hadn't leered down his nose at me for being a woman, not to mention a Dark Elf.

"Can I interest you in some fine goods from Morrowind?" called a familiar accent.

I turned, seemingly surprised at the familiarity. "Can you still _get_ decent goods from Morrowind?"

The owner of the stall blinked in surprise. "Greetings, Sister Elf! I didn't realize you _were _an Elf in all that armor…"

I snorted, and leaned against the side of his market stall. "Greetings, Brother Elf. And I get that a lot."

He laughed, and nodded. "I'm Brand-Shei…" He trailed off, brow furrowing. "I'm sorry, have we met before?"

"I don't think so," I lied. "I'm sure I'd remember a Dunmer with such an odd name." Truth is, I had met Brand-Shei before, back when I was running around killing dragons with the Blades. "I'm Tiberia."

"Nice to meet you," he laughed. "I'm a Dunmer by birth, but raised Argonian. The Dovahkiin actually helped me discover my lineage a few years back… I wonder how that woman is doing? I haven't seen her in years…"

My brow furrowed in puzzlement. "What in Oblivion is a… What did you say?"

His eyebrows nearly shot into his hairline (quite a feat, for a Dark Elf). "What's a Dovahkiin…? Blimey, you must be new to Skyrim."

I shrugged. "Not so fresh of the road as you'd think, but I haven't gotten well acquainted with the Nords yet…"

He shook his head. "The Dovahkiin, or the Dragonborn… how is it the Nords describe it?" He glanced about, looking for a true Nord, but Madesi (an Argonian), and Grelka (a Breton) were shaking their heads, no help at all.

"The Dragonborn is someone born with the blood and soul of a dragon, but the body of a mortal," answered a lilting voice from behind me. "He—well, _she_, actually—can intrinsically learn and use the dragon language as Thu'ums—Shouts. They're rare, though. Supposedly only come about once an Era."

I turned to get a decent look at the speaker who knew so much about Dovahkiin lore (and whose Draconic was atrocious. The plural of Thu'um is Thu'umme, thank you very much). He was clearly a Nord, with red hair to his shoulders and a goatee to match, not to mention the strong Nordic build and jawline. A large, ragged scar ran from cheekbone to chin on the left side of his face, and I couldn't help but wonder where he'd gotten it. He was dressed in everyday merchant's clothes, yet had a dagger slung through his belt (looked Orcish to me, but I couldn't tell). He carried himself with the same sort of charismatic confidence I'd seen in men like Ulfric Stormcloak and Kodlak Whitemane, and yet his seemed to come from a darker, more shadowy place. His eyes were a vivid emerald green, which I found odd, since most Nords I'd met had dark eyes. But eh, speaking as a Dunmer, anything other than red just looks strange.

"Thank you, Brynjolf," Brand-Shei said in earnest, dipping his head in a shallow Dunmeri bow of respect. "I've never had a head for Nordic legends."

"What was that other thing you called it?" I asked, testing the waters. "Not Dragonborn, but…"

"Dovahkiin," Brynjolf, the red-headed Nord, supplied, now making his way over to Brand-Shei's stall to impart Nordic wisdom on the lot of us. "It's a translation from the dragon tongue that our Dragonborn is so famous for. I think it just means 'Dragonborn,' actually, but what do I know? I don't speak it."

I studied him a moment, trying to get a decent read on the man. But his face gave away nothing, but more unnerving than that, neither did his eyes. "You know an awful lot about this," I commented, sounding for all the world like a Dunmer in over her head.

Brynjolf laughed at that. "This is our sacred tradition—Nordic, that is; I'm a born-and-bred Son of Snow. I was taught it all as a child, forgot it by adulthood like most people, then suddenly remembered when the Dragonborn turned out to be a real person."

"The Dragonborn is _alive?" _I asked, sounding appropriately shocked and awed.

Brynjolf and Brand-Shei both nodded. "Aye, a Dunmeri woman by the name of Morwyn," Brynjolf added. "She killed Alduin, the World-Eater, a few years ago, and has been helping the Stormcloaks since."

Brand-Shei started off on something, but I tuned him out, listening hard to the world around me. Something was wrong, here. So very wrong. I listened harder, and then, just like that, I heard the twang of a bowstring being released.

I immediately jumped into action, knocking Brynjolf to the floor and vaulting over Brand-Shei's market stall to knock him down as well. The arrow—ebony, no less—crashed into Brand-Shei's stall with a loud thunk. Had I still been standing there, it would have gone straight through my heart. I turned to find the aggressor as I scurried out from behind the stall. My heart skipped a beat upon realization, and I instantly wished I could just shout the bastard into Oblivion. I recognized that armor, alright.

_The Dark Brotherhood is trying to kill me. _

I sent sparks arcing across the marketplace, but the would-be assassin took off running. I vaulted over the low wall surrounding the place, hot on his heels. I was too slow in this blasted heavy armor; by the Nine, I missed my Glass armor. The assassin tore up the steps to the nearest building, and drew an evil-looking dagger from his belt upon reaching the summit. He whipped around to face me as I tore up the stairs, drawing my own swords from my belt.

The resulting fight was short and vicious. This assassin clearly knew what he was doing, as he parried both my blades with his dagger until he had an opening enough to draw his own sword (a scimitar). I could hear the shouts from the Riften guards from behind me, as well as whichever citizens happened to be passing by. The assassin was glancing around hurriedly, clearly not wanting to be caught. That's when I disarmed him.

His sword and dagger went flying down the steps, and I wasted no time grabbing his throat with one gnarled hand. "I will shock you into Oblivion," I threatened.

The assassin glared at me but said nothing.

"Who sent you?" I hissed, squeezing tighter around his throat. "Who was your mark?"

"The Dragonborn," he hissed. "I was sent to kill _you_, Morwyn."

I cast the spell of sparks without letting go of his throat and his shriek proved his death. I let go of him as the guards reached the top of the stairs, along with a horrified priestess of Mara. "You've defiled the temple!" the high priestess, a Dunmer named Dinya Balu if memory served, shouted. "Oh, Mara, forgive this transgression!"

I stood up, fully intending to walk away and argue with any guard accusing me of murder, but Dinya grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and dragged me into the temple. She flung me to my knees before the main altar and ordered, "Pray. Beg Lady Mara for her forgiveness."

I let out a sigh. This day just kept getting better and better. "I'm not a devout of the Nine Divines," I said quietly.

Nothing but silence in the cool, sparsely-lit temple for at least a solid minute.

More gently than she'd treated me previously, Dinya knelt on the floor next to me and took my hand. "Lady Mara, forgive this wandering soul before you," she murmured. "Forgive the wandering soul whose death has so offended you. For you are the Light of the World in this dark time…"

I felt nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing out of the ordinary. I have issues with the Nine Divines, so being the Dovahkiin, one favored by the gods, left me in a strange place. Supposedly, I was related to Akatosh himself, like the Dragonborn emperors of eld, the Septim bloodline. Following that train of thought, I was also related to Alduin the World-Eater, the Nord god of Destruction—something of little sister, of sorts. _Mal Briinah, _Paarthurnax and Odahviing call me. Yet despite my status, I could not find it in me to worship the Nine. The Daedra were real; I had seen them, summoned them, completed quests for them. The Divines… I had not seen, only felt their presences. That just wasn't enough for me.

After what seemed like an eternity, Dinya stood once again, and helped me to my feet. "Lady Mara says she will forgive you," she said, "but only because you saved others by killing this Dark Brotherhood agent. She wishes you to drop your false religion, and come home."

My temper instantly flared. "Do not try to convert me, priestess."

Dinya held up both hands, a gesture of surrender and submission. "I do not mean to offend, Sister Elf. I have merely seen the light, and wish to show you as well."

Ah, she was harmless. Not one of those priests who'd chop my head off for Daedra worship. Or worse, one of the Vigilants of Stendarr. "I appreciate the sentiment but I have found my way in life."

She bowed her head solemnly. "Maybe one day you will find another."

I smirked. "We'll see."

I departed from the temple and was surprised to find the body still there. Glancing about to make sure no one was watching, I rummaged through the pockets of the now-dead Dark Brotherhood assassin. Funny, I didn't notice until now that he was a Redguard. Upon finding what I was looking for, I unfolded the letter.

_Nazir—_

_Your Contract is to kill the Dragonborn, Morwyn. She should arrive in Riften within the week, make yourself scarce until then. She is a Dark Elf—red eyes, peculiar shade of blue, pointed ears—and usually is wearing some sort of Elfish armor—Daedric, Glass, Elven, etc. It is also known that she favors swords over any other weapon._

_ The woman is armed and dangerous, a Spellsword of the highest order. I wouldn't send someone who couldn't handle it, but do not take this Contract lightly. I have no wish to see you dead._

_ The client clearly wants this poor fool dead; we have already been paid for this Contract. Failure is not an option._

—_Astrid_


	3. A Chance Arrangement

I walked into the Riften tavern, The Bee and Barb, that afternoon and was greeted by a round of thunderous applause. Even the snooty Marcurio and curt Sapphire joined in. I made my way over to the bar amidst hearty claps on the back and offers of mead and collapsed onto a stool. I called to the innkeeper, an Argonian woman by the name of Keerava, for some ale. She slapped a tankard down in front of me and said in a gruff, classic Argonian voice, "After what you've been through today? This one's on the house."

I nodded my thanks and took a long draught of ale. The alcohol cooled my parched throat, but could do nothing to stop my hands from shaking. Why was the Dark Brotherhood after me? Someone had to go through the trouble of the Black Sacrament, and the trouble of paying for a Contract. And in full before the assassination? They either didn't see me as much of a threat, or wanted to put the screws to the Dark Brotherhood. Or, an even chillier thought, was the Dark Brotherhood _itself _after me?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a rather large figure seat itself on the barstool next to me. "That was some quick thinking out there, lass."

I glanced up and over, only to come face to face with my new Nord friend, Brynjolf. "Thanks, I guess," I said, turning back to my drink. "Comes from years of practice."

"Years of practice?" Brynjolf took a swig from his own tankard. "You've had Dark Brotherhood agents after you for years? You must be one hell of a woman."

I laughed despite myself. "Not necessarily Dark Brotherhood," I said. "Morag Tong, mercenaries, hired thugs, bandits, even a few dragons since I've been in Skyrim… Seems like _someone's _always trying to kill me."

Brynjolf's brow furrowed. "Why would that be?"

I shrugged. "Political reasons, House vendettas, I stole something, they just don't like me… I don't know. People always find something."

"You _stole_ something?" Brynjolf laughed, a sound hearty and without scorn. I decided then that this particular Nord was alright in my book. "What in Oblivion did you steal to justify sending the Dark Brotherhood after you?"

_His heart. _"Who knows? Clearly nothing worth much." I gestured to myself and my equipment. "I forged all this myself."

"Pretty _and _talented," Brynjolf mused, taking a swig from his tankard.

"_Hey," _I told him sharply. "Don't bullshit me."

"And immune to pointless flattery." Brynjolf sounded vaguely impressed. "You are quite the character, lass..." He paused. "I'm sorry, I never caught your name."

I smirked. "Name's Tiberia. Yes, I am named after Talos. No, I don't know why."

"Named after…?"Brynjolf seemed confused, but the mask broke after a moment. "Ah, Tiber Septim. Odd for a Dark Elf, no offense meant."

"None taken; I don't understand it, either."

"Ever ask your parents about it?"

"I will when I get to Sovngarde."

"I'm sorry to hear that." The reply was automatic, but then Brynjolf's brow furrowed. "Wait, Sovngarde? You believe in the Nord afterlife?"

_It's hard not to, when you've been there. _"Sounds better than living in Aetherius for the rest of my afterlife. Or worse, one of the planes of Oblivion."

We sat there in companionable silence a moment, two warriors staring moodily over their tankards, but he broke the silence. "There was no need to bite my head off, lass."

I shot him an oh-come-now look. "No Nord in his right mind thinks any sort of Elf is pretty. Come now; I'm not _that _new to Skyrim."

Brynjolf was spared a retort when a rather unpleasant Dunmer by the name of Indaryn claimed the seat on my other side. "That was impressive," he lauded, clapping me on the shoulder and lingering there longer than technically necessary. "Killing a Dark Brotherhood agent is no easy feat. Maven won't be happy about it, but you don't care about that, now do you?

"Maven?" I asked, feeling rather stupid. "Who's Maven?"

"Maven Black-Briar," Indaryn grinned, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand. I could tell he was already drunk. "Her family basically has the city in its pocket. She runs the meadery over there…" He gestured hugely in a rather vague direction. "…and I'm in charge when she's not around." He dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. "And word on the street is, she's in with the Thieves Guild and will call the Dark Brotherhood if she needs someone taken care of."

"Thieves Guild?" My ears pricked up. "That exists?"`

"In rumor and name only," Brynjolf interjected, shooting dagger-like looks at Indaryn. "Don't go scaring the woman; she's only just gotten here."

"Ah, new to Riften are you?" Indaryn asked, and I immediately didn't like his tone. "I could show you around, if you like…"

"Thanks," I said sweetly, "but I've got a guide." I jerked a thumb at Brynjolf, who nodded as though this whole scenario wasn't strange at all.

Indaryn seemed startled. "All right, then. Welcome to the city." He departed, muttering something about 'those bloody Nords.'

"Thanks," I said offhandedly to the red-headed Nord on my left.

He laughed. "No problem, lass. I don't like him much either."

"Hey, Tiberia, could I talk to you a moment?"

I turned, finding Brand-Shei behind me. "Sure, you already are. What's up?"

Brynjolf found that a lot funnier than Brand-Shei, who nevertheless began talking. "This is going to sound strange," he began awkwardly, "but I went to go check the pockets of that Brotherhood assassin you killed. They carry around their instructions usually, you know? And I…"

"Thank you," I cut off his awkward-but-earnest rant. "Truly. But I already got the letter after I killed him."

"Well hell, lass!" Brynjolf exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell us? It'll probably tell you who's after you."

"It didn't say much of anything," I lied. "Only that whatever assassin the Dark Brotherhood sent can't tell Dark Elves apart to save his life." I paused. "No pun intended."

Brand-Shei tsked in annoyance. "Typical Redguard…"

Bur Brynjolf was more concerned about something else entirely. "So who was the Contract actually for?"

I shrugged. "A woman by the name of Morwyn."

Brynjolf spat whatever he was drinking out in surprise, while Brand-Shei's eyebrows shot into his hairline. "The Dragonborn?" Brand-Shei asked as Brynjolf coughed up a storm. "The Contract was for the _Dragonborn?"_

"I guess so…? Brynjolf, shut up." I handed him my tankard, which he downed in seconds.

"It's bad news for Skryim," Brynjolf began, slamming my tankard down on the bar, "if someone wants the Dovahkiin dead so badly they'll hire the Dark Brotherhood to kill her."

"But that still doesn't explain why the assassin confused me with her," I said.

Brand-Shei shrugged. "Who knows? Like you said, he probably can't tell Mer apart from each other."

"Or he couldn't find the Dragonborn and took out the closest thing he found," Brynjolf remarked. He pushed back from the bar and stood. "Watch your back, Tiberia. Riften can be unforgiving even without death threats hanging over your head."

I nodded. "Good to know."

At that point, Talen-Jei, Keerava's husband and co-owner of The Bee and Barb, stopped by to congratulate me and offer me one of the drink specials. Brynjolf declined, citing past experiences, and Brand-Shei immediately ordered one called the White-Gold Tower, but I was intrigued.

"Did you say there's _Nightshade _in that one?" I asked, certain my ears had deceived me.

"It's perfectly safe, I assure you," Talen-Jei hastened to add in his rough Argonian bass. "I couldn't tell you how many times I've drunk a Velvet LeChance, and look, I'm still here."

"Did you name these?" Brynjolf asked as I traded gold for tankard with Talen-Jei.

"No, I picked them up while I was working as a bartender in Gideon," Talen-Jei supplied. "Why do you ask?"

Brynjolf shrugged. "Just curious why someone would name a drink after Lucien Lachance."

Talen-Jei shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, friend." He departed then, off to make sure the rest of his customers were satisfied.

Brand-Shei and I exchanged a look. "You want to ask, or should I?" I said.

"Who's Lucien Lachance?" Brand-Shei said to Brynjolf.

The red-headed Nord laughed. "Ironically, a famous Dark Brotherhood assassin from the last Era. He lived in Cyrodiil, also did some work with the Thieves Guild there."

I slammed my palm into my forehead. "Are you shitting me?"

Brynjolf, Brand-Shei, and even Keerava, all burst out laughing. "I think the gods may be trying to tell you something," Brand-Shei managed to get out.

I looked heavenward, stretching both hands out in a massive shrug. "I'm listening!" I said to whatever was listening up there, causing my newfound friends to crack up more.

It was then that I noticed the Bee and Barb was oddly, well, quiet. Sure, it had the hubbub of voices and the general volume of so many people being in one room, but it had no music. "Hey, Keerava," I asked as the Argonian tried to stifle her laughter, "why don't you have a bard?"

She shrugged and shook her head. "No one has ever wanted the job. Don't like being employed by Argonians, I guess." Then she perked up. "Are you offering?"

She caught me off guard with that. "What, me? No, I can't…"

"Why not?" Keerava countered expertly. "The position is open."

"I'm not trained at the college in Solitude, or anything…"

"Nonsense," Keerava scoffed. "The Bards' College has trained some awful bards in the past, so what's the point of solely hiring them?"

"A sound argument," Brynjolf laughed.

"Don't encourage her," I hissed.

But Keerava had her own plans. "COULD I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION A MOMENT, PLEASE?" Her inn quieted itself long enough to make an announcement. "Since we have been so long without a bard, our new assassin-killing friend has so graciously accepted the position."

Some laughter, and then one of the older men in town asked, "Can she even sing? Or play?"

Keerava shrugged. "I'll let you all be the judges of that. Anyway, that is all. Go back to your drinks."

"Hey, can I make a request?" Brynjolf asked me with this smirk I didn't particularly like.

"Don't make life worse for yourself," I warned.

He ignored me. "Can you play the Song of the Dragonborn?"

"Yeah, sing that one!" called Indaryn, who apparently hadn't gotten over his earlier slight.

I stood, shrugged, put on what I like to call my mask, and began:

"_Dragonborn, Dragonborn, _

_By his honor is sworn,_

_To keep evil forever at bay!_

_And the fiercest foes rout_

_When they hear triumph's shout,_

_Dragonborn, for your blessing we pray!" _


	4. The Wager

**Shannon: Thank you. The main reason I made Tiberia a Dark Elf is **_**because **_**of the Daedra, actually. They are way too much fun to avoid :)**

**And to everyone: thank you so much for the reviews :) Feedback is always much appreciated**

-)

_Ulfric—_

_ So far, nothing to report as far as the Thieves Guild is concerned. There are whispers around town of them, but their operatives are far too secretive—not to mention, apparently paranoid—to recruit just anyone. Not sure who to go to, or who to trust._

_ As far as the Dovahkiin is concerned… are you aware someone hired the Dark Brotherhood to take me out? Gods above and below, I nearly shouted the man to pieces, then remembered I couldn't use the Thu'um. Close call. I'm fine, by the way. _

_ Through some cruel twist of fate probably thought up by Sheogorath, the local inn has hired me to be their bard. I'm amazed I still have the job, but that's another story. The "friends" I've made don't know much more than I do about Riften's inner workings, but asking them hasn't exactly been easy. Need to wait for it to come up in conversation, you know?_

_ Since you're going to ask, these "friends" wouldn't be yours. Brand-Shei and Brynjolf, both market merchants, neither from prominent families. Well, Brand-Shei is, but he's not a Nord. Brynjolf is. Also Keerava and Talen-Jei, the proprietors of the Bee and Barb. And Balimund, the local smith._

_ You know, for a pro-Stormcloak town, no one here seems very willing to take up arms and ride into battle for you, my friend. Perhaps you should look into Public Relations? _

_ Talos guide you,_

_ Tiberia Morwyn_

I waited a moment for the ink to dry, then folded and sealed my letter. I ran downstairs and managed to catch to courier before he left. I trekked back inside the Bee and Barb thanking Azura, only to be greeted by a bemused Keerava. "Who are you in such a rush to write to?" she chuckled. "A man?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, but like that. My uncle lives in Windhelm. He's all the family I have left; asked me to keep him posted after I decided to move." This was the story we'd concocted before I left Windhelm. Seemed like as a good a reason as any to keep writing letters to that city.

"Why didn't he come with you?" Keerava asked, beginning to sweep out the dust before the dinner rush. The thing about Keerava, I learned, was that if she cared about you, then it was genuine. She genuinely cared about your life and would ask you about it. Proved to be rather problematic for me.

"He's getting on in years," I said, thinking quickly, "and so stubborn it makes me seem like a doormat." She laughed at that. "He wanted to stay in Windhelm. Not sure why; the place treats the Dunmer like second-class citizens. Argonians, too."

Keerava tensed at the mention of her own race. "In Skyrim, the only thing colder than the land itself is the locals."

"Mmm." I nodded in agreement, expecting the conversation to end there.

Instead, Keerava asked, "So Tiberia, _is _there a man in your life? Some nice Dark Elf boy you had to leave behind?"

I snorted, hiding the fact that I'd tensed up at the question. "I was engaged to someone once," I said quietly. "But that was years ago… before I moved to Skyrim." _Before I became the Dovahkiin. Before I was someone._

Keerava was quiet a moment, absorbing this information. "Do you miss him?"

I actually laughed at that. "Miss him? Hell no! It was an arranged marriage between Dark Elven houses. I couldn't—can't—stand the man."

Keerava was laughing with me, by then. "Well then, never mind! You seemed to have dodged an arrow, there."

"You're not joking…" I shook my head. Before she could ask me anything else, I added, "So how did you meet Talen-Jei?"

Keerava gently set the broom against the wall. "I was living in Riften," she said, taking a seat across the table from me. "Working in this place, actually." She gestured to the inn itself. "Only then, I was the assistant, not the proprietor. He came in one day and…" She sighed. "…that was it."

My brow furrowed. "That's it?"

Keerava laughed. "Not much of a story, eh? But he makes me happy and provides for the both of us—what more do I need?"

For the life of me, I couldn't think of anything to say. Here I was, getting tangled up in Civil Wars and Guilds and on the lam from the Dark Brotherhood. Yet here was Keerava, happily married with a life of inn-keeping stretching on ahead of her. And yet… which of us was happy? Which of us felt fulfilled?

"And my wedding band is actually a gift from the Dragonborn, gods bless her soul," Keerava finished.

I blinked in genuine confusion. "What does she have to do with this?"

"All Argonian wedding bands need to have three flawless amethysts as part of their design—one to represent the man, the woman, and the Hist, the central component of an Argonian's life," she explained, tapping each one on her ring in turn. "Talen was in no way able to afford these, but the Dragonborn… she gave him three. Just gave them to him. No charge, didn't even expect recompense."

"This Dragonborn sounds like a formidable woman," I said, feeling weird talking about myself in the third person. "And not only on the battlefield."

"She truly is," Keerava agreed.

-)

That night was a slow one for the Bee and Barb. Mead was flowing sluggishly, most of our usual patrons were absent, and Maven and Sibbi Black-Briar took up a table and were given such a wide berth I was tempted to just leave the building. After about a thousand renditions of _Ragnar the Red _and _The Dragonborn Comes, _Keerava called for peace—our term for "that's enough with the music."

It was about then that a soaking-wet Brynjolf bust through the door, in a better mood than I'd ever seen him. (Brand-Shei had been in and out earlier; this was getting rather late.) He took up residence not at the bar as usual, but at a table, and when Keerava sat food instead of a tankard in front of him, I knew for certain something was up.

"What's got you so happy?" I asked by means of greeting, claiming the chair across from him.

Brynjolf glanced up, and his face broke out in a smile. "Just love it when a plan comes together, lass."

I then noticed he wasn't wearing his usual clothes, but some sort of leather armor with a hell of a lot of pockets. The hood on it was down around his shoulders, and Brynjolf's hair was still wet with rain. What had my Nord friend been up to?

I cocked an eyebrow. "Bryn, you're smiling. Since when do you do that?"

He snorted at that. "It's been a good day, Tiberia. Don't kill my mood."

"Well, what happened?" I asked.

Brynjolf sat back in his chair a moment, clearly debating something in his mind. To tell, or not to tell?

This moment would mark history, at least in my life.

"I'll make you a bet," he finally said. "If you can out-drink me, I'll let you in on a rather lucrative secret. Deal?"

"Deal," I said after a moment's deliberation, and we shook on it.

"Keerava, a few rounds for the both of us if you please," Brynjolf called. "On me."

I cocked an eyebrow in genuine confusion as Keerava set several tankards of mead between us. "Feeling generous, are we?" I asked.

Brynjolf merely waggled his eyebrows at me over the rim of his tankard. We both downed the first one, no problem. Under normal circumstances, Brynjolf would have the advantage of having food in his stomach, but I was an Elf. Alcohol works in strange ways for us.

Down went two, three, and most of four by the we were both starting to feel it. Brynjolf had the distinct look of someone who's going to be sick, and my head was beginning to swim. But we both pressed on, far too stubborn to quit. _Too. Damn. Stubborn. _That attribute is one we both shared, and would serve us both well and poorly simultaneously.

"You're good at this," Brynjolf observed with amazingly crisp diction, given that we were up to five tankards, now.

"Surprised since I'm not a Nord?" I shot back. My voice sounded slurred to my own ears, which didn't bode well for Brynjolf's comprehension.

"More because you _are _an Elf, not because you're _not _a Nord," he replied.

Keerava had been watching this whole affair with a sort of bemused dissatisfaction. "If you're going to be sick, avoid the rugs," she said, shaking her head. "You Nords and your drinking games…"

"Keerava, have some faith in me," Brynjolf scoffed. "I'm not going to be…" He cut himself off abruptly, and clapped a hand to his mouth. Realizing it was pointless, Brynjolf let go and retched onto the hardwood.

I ignored my disgust for the moment and drained the dregs of my tankard, slamming it down onto the table. "You lose," I said unevenly.

"Yeah, lass, I caught that," he replied, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He stood from the table, and to his credit, didn't lurch or stumble. He set a mass of Septims onto the table and began to exit the place. "Sorry about that, Keerava."

"It's alright, Brynjolf," Keerava sighed. "Happens all the time."

"Hey!" I called after him, catching up unevenly. "You owe me an explanation."

"Not here," was the reply. "Come on." He took me by the elbow—a strangely gentlemanly thing to do—and led me out of the Bee and Barb and into the marketplace.

It was deserted at this time of night. And even if it weren't two in the morning, the driving rain would have kept most people away. Most of Riften's residents were tucked away in bed, save for a few unlucky guards and the two of us. He stopped before his personal market stall, and let go of my arm. "See this, lass?" he asked me, tapping the barrel next to his stall. "The insignia?"

It was a diamond with a circle in the center. "Aye," I said. "But it means nothing."

Brynjolf chuckled good-naturedly. "See, that's where you're wrong, Tiberia. It means something. Something that used to mean something to Riften, and the rest of Skyrim."

My drunken mind was trying to figure out what he was getting at, but kept getting distracted by the water pelting my face. Then, like a flash of lightning, I was enlightened. "The Guild." I whispered. "You're in with the Thieves Guild."


	5. The Cistern and the Sister

The next day, I trekked through the Ratway under Riften, as per my instructions. I wasn't sure how far I trusted Brynjolf, but so far nothing down here could kill me. Even a hungover me. I killed a few random bandit-types down here, some skeevers, and I think a gentleman with a giant for a parent. These sewers were giving me the heebie-jeebies—I needed air, sunlight, a smell that wasn't damp earth and rotting things.

One thing I should probably mention about myself, I hate being underground. Dwemer Cities, the Ragged Flagon, even the living quarters in Jorrvaskr. I hate it, hate it, _hate it. _Too many bad memories. I put up with it for the sake of the Guild, but that didn't mean I liked it.

As I wandered, I continued to ponder the assassin sent after me. The letter was addressed to a Nazir—typical Redguard name. I wondered if he had a family, or even friends outside the Brotherhood. I mostly stayed on these lighter topics to keep myself from dwelling on one, chilling fact: the only people who knew the Dragonborn was going to Riften were in the Palace of the Kings. The Heart of the Stormcloak Rebellion, people I supposedly trusted.

I finally found the steps I was looking for, and plunged down even deeper into the sewers. The other side of the door yielded a giant, circular amphitheatre-type room. Half of the room was filled with water that went to my thighs (I discovered that later), and the other was a rather run-down looking bar. I crossed the bridge on the right hand side, and heard Brynjolf's voice drifted back towards me:

"I don't know, lads. I've just got a good feeling about this one."

"I dunno, Bryn," replied another voice, one that sounded as though its owner either had a stuffed-up nose, or had previously had his nose broken past the point of repair. "You've been wrong before…"

"I'm not this time," Brynjolf interrupted confidently. "Thieves like you and Vex are a dying breed, Delvin. But this one…This one could be it."

"I'm still not…" began the other voice, the one Brynjolf called Delvin, but he was interrupted when I arrived on the scene.

Brynjolf's face cracked into a genuine smile when he saw me. "I had a feeling I'd be seeing you again down here, Tiberia."

The other thief was sizing me up as though he'd done this a million times before (I later learned that he had). This second man—Delvin Mallory, I later learned—was a Breton man, big and bulky in the way of that ilk. His head was shaved, revealing brown stubble, and he had a faint, wispy goatee akin to Brynjolf's. His eyes were startlingly dark in comparison to the rest of his pale face, and he was dressed in the same armor I'd seen Brynjolf in yesterday—the armor of a high-ranking Guild operative.

"Doesn't look like much to me, Bryn," Delvin said, folding his arms across his broad chest as he leaned against the bar.

I cocked an eyebrow. _I don't, do I? Humph. _"You call that a deterrent?" I asked as I gestured over my shoulder at the Ratway, purposefully sounding condescending. "I met scarier things in the nursery."

The skinny, brown-haired, Nord bartender—later introduced to me as Vekel the Man—burst out laughing from his vantage point behind the bar. "I see what you mean, Brynjolf," he agreed. "This one's got the fire."

Brynjolf smirked. "Reliable _and _headstrong. She's turning out to be quite the prize."

Delvin actually laughed at that. "If you say so, Brynjolf. Go talk to Mercer; and pray that he's not in one of his moods."

Brynjolf shuddered visibly. "Well, come on, lass. Let's get the worst part over with."

I fell into step with the red-headed Nord as he led me through the twisted passageways of the Ragged Flagon that would become almost as familiar to me as my own hands. "Who's Mercer?" I asked. "And I guess more importantly, why is everyone scared of him?"

Brynjolf just shook his head. "Mercer Frey, he's in charge of the Guild. He's a brilliant man. It's just that recently, he's had a shorter fuse than normal. Just stay on his good side; you'll be fine."

I nodded, and Brynjolf pushed open a back door to yet another open, amphitheater-type room. This one, however, had a circular pool in the center, with four walkways leading up to a smaller circle in the center. Around the edges of the room were beds, trunks, shelves, a shooting range, and pretty much every and anything a thief could need. I saw that the Guild was bigger than one would think, for all its secrecy topside.

Brynjolf crossed one of the stone bridges to the circular dais in the center of the room, and was intercepted by a slim Breton man dressed in identical armor, all black leather and crisscrossing straps. This man had a severe face, a slimmer version of Delvin's stocky Breton build, and a wicked-looking Dwarven sword in his belt. His hair was a dirty-blond, shoulder-length, and—like every self-respecting man in Skyrim—the lower half of his face was partially obscured by facial hair. The unnerving thing about him? He had eyes like Ulfric—piercing and very thorough with their dissection of what lay before them.

"Mercer, this is Tiberia, our newest recruit," Brynjolf said by means of greeting.

"The assassin-killer," Mercer confirmed, folding his arms across his chest and sizing me up, not unlike Delvin just had. "Brynjolf, I hope you know what you're doing. She hasn't even done a job for the guild yet."

Brynjolf put an overdramatic hand over his heart. "Guildmaster, have you so little faith in me?"

Mercer shot him a look, and Brynjolf immediately straightened up. "The last three recruits you've brought us each died in a week."

"Hey now," I jutted in, a tad worried with this knowledge.

Both men snapped out of their soon-to-be argument and looked to me. "They were admittedly stupid, Mercer," Brynjolf offered up readily enough. "This one's not."

Mercer was quiet a moment, boring holes in me with those piercing grey eyes. This man absolutely radiated power—the dangerous kind. No wonder no one wanted to break up the Thieves Guild, not if it meant you'd have to go through him! "First rule of the Guild," he finally said, "is _follow _the rules. Do what we tell you, don't try to cheat us, and you'll end up rich. _Don't _do that, and we'll knock you on your arse and back into the Ratway so fast, you won't know what day it is. Let your Dark Elf Ancestors deal with _that."_

"There are rules for the Thieves' Guild?" I asked, rather perplexed.

Brynjolf started laughing, but immediately stopped upon being on the receiving end of Mercer's glare. "Ah, come on. That's the first thing everyone asks—myself included."

Mercer abruptly grinned and grudgingly admitted Brynjolf had a point. He studied me a moment longer, then said, "Alright, Bryn. If you think she's worth it, induct the woman and put her to work already." At that, he left us and returned to his desk, almost immediately rubbing his temples in frustration.

Brynjolf was grinning like a Khajiit as he turned back to me. "Looks like you're in. Welcome to the Thieves Guild." He didn't pause to let that sink in. "Go talk to Tonilia—the Redguard woman out front—and she'll set you up with your new armor. Then come see me; I've got a job for you to do."

I disappeared into the Ragged Flagon again, and located Tonilia without difficulty—she's the only Redguard for miles. She wore her dark hair in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, and the traditional Thieves Guild armor (the brown, not the black). The undershirt she wore had no sleeves, leaving her arms entirely bare. Like Brynjolf, like Mercer, like Delvin, she immediately sized me up when I greeted her. It's like a sixth sense with these people! Her dark eyes scrutinized me a moment longer, her gaze unwavering.

"I'm the Guild fence," she informed me, folding her arms across her sternum and leaning against the back of the chair she'd just been sitting in. "You come by anything you don't technically own, and I'll be glad to take it off your hands. But I swear to Ruptga, if you _ever _attempt to rip me off, there will be the devil to pay—do you hear me?"

I nodded. "Loud and clear."

She smirked. "Good. Now let's get you some armor." She clapped me on the shoulder, then disappeared for a moment behind the bar. By the way Vekel didn't seem to mind, I pretty much gathered they were courting. Tonilia returned a few minutes later, dumping full set of the traditional armor—hood, body, boots, and bracers-into my arms. "I'd recommend putting this on after you go talk to Brynjolf. Your bed should be on the end somewhere; you'll notice it's the only one that doesn't reek yet." She chuckled at some private joke.

"Lovely," I said, miraculously able to keep a straight face.

"Oh, and Tiberia?" Tonilia called as I was partway down the ramp. I half-turned back to her, a signal for 'go on.' "Welcome to the cozy little family." Her dark eyes lost their sharp edge, and I knew then that she was like Brynjolf. Might have been a thief, but that didn't mean she was a terrible person.

I was making my way back to the Cistern when I was stopped by a blonde Imperial woman with a major chip on her shoulder—the one and only Vex. She was dressed in the black leather armor of Higher Operative—same as Brynjolf, Mercer, and Delvin—and had a simple steel dagger in her belt. Her movements were utilitarian, almost militaristic, and she stood like a man, arms folded across her sternum, feet firmly planted on the ground. And I could respect that—I stand the same way.

"Listen up," she growled. "One, I'm the best infiltrator this skeever-hole of a Guild's got, so if you think you're here to replace me, you're _dead wrong. _Two, shut up, don't ask questions, and do what you're told when Brynjolf sends you to me with a job, and we'll get along famously. Got it?"

I was tempted to say something sarcastic, but figured that would spark a brawl, or at the very least, get me on this woman's bad side. And that was _not _something a self-preserving Dovahkiin liked to do. Therefore, I merely said, "I'm not here to replace anyone, and I hear you. Just don't ask me questions either, deal?"

Her face lost its edge (because Vex doesn't _soften_). "Deal. And I'm Vex."

I nodded, awkwardly shifting the bundle in my arms to better hold on to it. "Tiberia." It felt strange to introduce myself the Nord way—just the name, no title, no House affiliation, no surname.

I dumped my gear on my bed (Tonilia was right about the smell), and then set about finding Brynjolf again. The men of Guild congratulated me on joining ranks, but the woman (yes, singular) seemed to keep her distance. I recognized her as Sapphire from the Bee and Barb, and realized that explained the cold shoulder. Even up there, she didn't like people. But everyone else was friendly enough, given what the guild was:

Thrynn, a Nord, an ex-bandit, and excellent muscle.

Cynric Endell, a Breton, an ex-jailbreaker who was once imprisoned in High Rock for three years. After that, he never jailbroke again, and instead joined the Guild.

Rune, an Imperial, an ex-fisherman whose strange name came from the rock he was discovered with after washing ashore after a shipwreck. Apparently, no one knows what the runes on the rock mean.

Vipir the Fleet, a Nord, an ex-respected member who earned his epithet by running from Windhelm all the way back to Riften after being caught at a job—even though he had a horse tied up outside the city limits.

Niruin, a Bosmer, an ex-nobleman who used to work with a gang called the Silver Crescents. After his father found out, Delvin brought him into the Guild.

I discovered Brynjolf in the training room. "There you are!" He said, clapping me on the shoulder. "Ready for your first assignment?"

I snorted. "Does a bear shit in the woods?"

Brynjolf burst out laughing at that, but was serious enough in a moment to debrief me. There was a bee farm just outside Riften—Goldenglow Estate—that used to bring in a lot of money for the Guild. But suddenly, its owner, a Wood Elf named Aringoth, refused to give us our share, and it made Maven Black-Briar—an influential client for the Guild, and also in the mead business—furious. I was to break in, clear out Aringoth's safe, and burn three beehives or so.

"Nothing tells the people of Riften we mean business like a rising column of smoke," Brynjolf finished. "So get some sleep, and get going. The sooner you get this done, the better."

I nodded, about to go fall into my bunk, exhausted, but stopped. "Hey, Brynjolf?" He turned to me, all ears. "Why'd you tell me about the Guild?"

He paused a moment, deliberating how best to answer. "One, I know you're a damn good thief if the Dark Brotherhood is after you. Two… I don't know. Something here…" He tapped his gut with a fist. "…tells me bringing you in is going to be a good bet. Tumultuous, but good."


	6. Loud and Clear

"Hey, Tiberia?" Tonilia approached me as I readied myself for battle that next morning. "Just so you know, the entirety of the male population down here can't stop _staring_."

I snorted. The Thieves Guild armor fit me like a glove, but then it again, it did that to everyone. We needed to be light, fast, and agile. I wore the brown armor of a Lower Operative (nicknamed 'Junior member'), which consisted of four essential parts. There were knee-high boots that buckled up my calves (and even on the arch of my foot, to make sneaking easier), and a set of strong leather leggings that tucked neatly into the boots. (These even had padding on the knees to protect the vulnerable joint.) Thick leather bracers (with rather confusing laces, may I add?) protected the forearms, and the sleeves of the undergarments had padding on the elbows, much like that on the knees.

Up top, a thick leather cuirass cinched shut with multiple bands of strong leather and iron buckles, and over that were two crisscrossing bands of thick cowhide. Not only did these protect your heart, your sternum, and your shoulders—some of the most vulnerable areas, when wearing light armor—but the thick bands also housed a plethora of pockets and pouches, perfect for a thief to stash small bits of loot in without weighing him or herself down. Another belt, worn around the waist, made sure the cuirass stayed in place, and—in the case of the women in the Guild—accentuated how large or small one was. Being me, it mostly just announced that any man with an ounce of upper body strength could probably snap me in half without breaking a sweat. Women like Vex wouldn't have a problem, either.

Beautiful. I hate appearing unintimidating. Makes my life just _that _much more difficult. There's a reason I'm infamous for running around Skyrim wearing Daedric Armor.

"Fresh meat," I joked as I buckled my swordbelt over my hips, vaguely reminded of my early days with the Companions. "And my ass _does _look pretty great in these pants."

Tonilia burst out laughing. Clearly, this was not the expected answer. "I think I'm going to like you," she managed to get out.

I smirked. "Besides, they still stare at Vex when they think she isn't looking."

Tonilia shrugged. "Truth," she agreed after catching her breath. "But even Mr. Guild-Second-Himself can't help it." At my confused, furrowed brow, Tonilia added, "_Brynjolf_, Tiberia. Brynjolf's the Guild Second. Only answers to Mercer."

My eyebrow shot into my hairline, and I stole a glance towards the red-headed Nord who was now talking to Thrynn and Rune. "_Brynjolf? _Really? I never would have pinned authority on him."

"He _is_ rather lighthearted, isn't he?" Then she smirked. "Think of Mercer as the patriarch of this cozy little family—and Brynjolf as the older brother whom you can actually _speak _to."

I nodded. "Duly noted."

Tonilia nodded in reply, then her joking smirk was back. "Just don't let the attention go to your head, Dunmer, eh?"

"Is that a crack at my race?" I asked, only half-jokingly, cocking my head to get a better look at this Redguard woman.

"Hey, I'm just warning you," she said, holding both hands up in a don't-shoot-the-messenger way. "And Dark Elves are generally known for being rather, ah, _precocious_. Not saying you are, just don't want to see you burned."

I paused a moment. "Who burned you, Tonilia?"

She seemed startled that I caught on so fast. "It was years ago," she said quietly. "I'm with Vekel, now." Ah, so my analysis had been correct. "And regardless, there are three—well, now four—women in this guild. We watch each other's backs… it's kind of an unspoken rule.

I counted off on my fingers. "Sapphire, you, Vex, me... Hell, that is only four. That's sad…"

Tonilia shrugged. "It is what it is. Now good luck with Goldenglow."

I disappeared topside through the secret entrance in the cemetery, and was about to set off for Goldenglow, then realized I'd never returned to the Bee and Barb after disappearing into the Ratway. I winced at that. At the very least, I owed Keerava an explanation. I checked the moons—I had an hour or two before daybreak. More than enough time to talk to the woman; she'd be awake.

I pushed open the door and cautiously slipped inside. Keerava and Talen-Jei worked all hours; there was no telling who would be here. But there stood the Argonian woman, sweeping out the bar before the morning hours. Her head had snapped up at the creak of the door. "Tiberia? Is that you?"

I nodded. "Yes, hello. Sorry about last night…"

"I should have warned you about getting involved with that Brynjolf, but…" Keerava cut herself off as she came closer. In the light, she could fully see me—more accurately, what I was dressed in. Her eyes widened and the fight seemed to have been sucked out of her. "By the gods, he got you too." She sounded wounded. "That armor… Oh, not you too…"

"It was my choice, Keerava," I began. I hadn't set out to hurt her, and yet as always, I did. This is why I didn't let anyone close to me. "My choice."

Her face hardened, but she still seemed on the verge of tears. "He does this, and we hate him for it. Take good, honest, hardworking people and turn them into…" Her voice caught.

"Into what?" I pressed softly.

"..._Thieves!" _she hissed. "Into _thieves, _Tiberia! By the Nine, I was hoping you wouldn't go down that path, into that Ratway. No one comes out the same."

"You had hopes for me…?" I was so shocked, I didn't know what to say.

"I have hopes for everyone who walks through that door," Keerava answered swiftly. "Oh gods, Tiberia, _why?"_

Her heart was breaking, and I could hear it. "Why?!" I hissed, nearly on the verge of tears myself. "Because I am a _person_. And people are unreliable, dishonest, uncaring, and they will _break your heart!"_

We both stood there, trembling with rage and sorrow and fear. "Go," croaked Keerava. "So long as you wear that armor, you are not welcome here."

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, and the pain staved off tears. "I understand." I turned and began to head for the door.

"Tiberia," Keerava called after me a moment or so later.

I half turned back to her. "What?"

"It's only so long as you wear the armor."

I caught the meaning under her words, loud and clear. "I _understand, _Keerava."

"No, child." I felt her hand on my shoulder and immediately jumped three feet into the air while simultaneously drawing the dagger sheathed on my thigh. To her credit, this didn't faze the tough Argonian. "I mean _literally, _so long as you wear the armor. I cannot make your choices for you. Who you chose to walk with is your business."

I paused a moment, realizing just how many Thieves Guild operatives I'd seen around the Bee and Barb. Then I nodded. "I guess I'll see you around."

"So much for a bard," Keerava half-sighed, half-laughed. "Don't cut yourself off from the city, Tiberia."

With a last nod, I disappeared out the door and once outside the city gates, broke into an all-out run. I could have sworn I heard Keerava ask herself, "What happened to that Elf?" as I left, but I guess there are some things I'll never know. I felt so wonderfully light and free in light armor again, and after my conversation with Keerava, I was ready to crack some skulls. Preferably, in violent and stress-relieving ways.

Getting onto the island wasn't too difficult. Vex had mentioned a sewer system I could use, but I just scrambled up the side where it was low enough, ducked under a few wooden structures, and almost immediately found myself knee-deep in mercenaries. When Vex had mentioned that Aringoth had tripled the guard, it had sent my heart skidding. Then she said it was around eight, and I was scoffed at my own worry. Eight humans? I could deal with that. They didn't put up much of a fight, these mercenaries, so before long the front of the estate was corpse-riddled and I was busy setting fire to a few beehives with some well-placed Flame spells.

And then, I heard it. An earth-shaking roar, and the rush of air that announced a dragon attack.

"Shit," I said, and readied for an attack.

The dragon circled overhead, clearly having noticed me. I glanced about, making sure no one was around, took a deep breath, and shouted, "_JOOR ZAH FRUL!"_

No dragon can fight the Dragonrend shout, though this one did try. But as with all of them, it had to land eventually. And then I set to it with sword and spell, and it was blasting ice at me. But it succumbed, as they all had, and I stood there absorbing its soul a moment before turning to face the hives again. Azura had been watching over me, having a Frost dragon attack. Any other kind, and this whole place would be on fire.

It was then that I heard a squeak from somewhere over to my right. I twisted, and there stood one final mercenary that I'd missed. "You…" He was shaking, staring at me. "You're the Dragonborn!"

I took the easy way out. "_YOL TOOR SHUL!"_

He was nothing more than ashes in a moment. I breathed in, feeling strangely at ease. The Thu'um built up in me whenever I went too long without using it. I learned that the hard way during my first days as Dragonborn, back when I kept forgetting I even _could _Shout. It would become almost a physical ache, a pressing need to release the buildup of power. I knew this would be the most difficult part of what Ulfric was asking me to do, but I had no choice. To use the Thu'um was to mark myself as Dovahkiin. I just hoped they'd send me on jobs out of Riften. Jobs that required travelling on dangerous roads, say.

I hurried into the estate, shuddering at my close call. If he'd gotten away, my secret would be out. I would have failed the Stormcloaks, and I don't _do _failure. Inside the extravagant place were more mercenaries, and a lot of random gold lying around that just begged to be taken. All in all, this was proving to be exceedingly simple, which is why my paranoid self was beginning to worry. This shouldn't be so easy; _something _was surely going to make my life difficult, right? It had to.

I picked the lock to the master bedroom almost without effort, though finding it had been rather difficult. The twisting passageways were marked by nothing but dead mercenaries, really. Lockpicking was one of the only stealth skills I'd really gotten good at over the years, but it was only because Nordic ruins are fond of locks in places that really shouldn't be locked. I found the owner in question, one Aringoth, cowering behind a dresser. He saw me, and gave a startled little jump. "Good-for-nothing mercenaries," he growled. "Oblivion take them all!"

"Yes, yes, it did that," I said, in a hurry to get out of here. "Now hand over the key to the safe in the basement, and I may let you live, Brother Elf."

His eyes were wide, but his jaw was firmly set. He stood to look me in the eye. "Are you joking? I may as well sign my own death warrant!"

"Look, I…" I paused, then blinked in recoil. "You're not a Wood Elf; Brynjolf said you were a Wood Elf."

He looked baffled. "No, I'm a High Elf… Why does it matter?"

I slashed his throat with my dagger, and he collapsed onto the floor. I dropped to a crouch and hissed, "_I hate High Elves." _Arrogant bastards, every last one. And the Thalmor weren't exactly endearing. They were as fanatical as the Vigilants of Stendarr, except dedicated to exterminating Talos and the Blades instead.

I searched his pockets for the key to his safe, then stood and began to walk out. I stopped by the bedside table, and studied this strange statue of a Queen Bee. _What in the world is this ugly thing? _I wondered. Shrugging and unsure of what possessed me to do it, I plucked it off the wood and stuck it in my pack. And then it was onwards to the basement of the place.

A few dead mercenaries later, I was clearing out the safe and heading through the sewers of the estate, and off the premises. This job had gone pretty smoothly, I noted, especially since everyone kept ranting and raving about the Thieves Guild's terrible run of luck. I took the high road off the island, and was back on the way to Riften just as the sun was rising. The beehives were still burning, belching great, black clouds of smoke that were freshly illuminated in the early dawn.

Brynjolf was right—nothing says the Guild meant business like columns of smoke.

I was back the Ragged Flagon Cistern by means of the secret entrance in the cemetery (something I never liked, no matter how many times I used it because I hate the Ratway) not too much later. My feet had barely hit the floor when I heard a familiar lilt: "So word on the street is, Goldenglow's been hit."

I smirked at Brynjolf. "That was quick."

He snorted. "It's rather hard to miss the smoke, lass." I rolled my eyes. "So, how'd it go?"

I fell into step beside him. "Pretty smooth, I'd say. Just a few mercenaries who were dumb enough to wear half their armor, one cowardly _High _Elf, by the way, and a dragon. Nothing too…"

"_A dragon!?"_

"Yeah, it wasn't a big deal," I said with a shrug. "I killed it, too."

Brynjolf was staring at me with this look of utter disbelief on his face. "How are you so calm about taking down a gods-damned _dragon!?"_

I shrugged. "I've done it before? They're no so difficult, if you annoy them enough so that they land. And avoid the teeth."

"You are something else, Tiberia…" He was shaking his head, still in utter disbelief. "Anyway, so what was in the safe?"

I rummaged around the pack on my hip for a moment, then handed over the approximate amount of gold and the letter. He ignored the Septims, telling me to keep them as pay, and immediately was engrossed in the letter. "Aringoth sold Goldenglow?! Bloody Bosmer thinks he can…"

"Altmer," I corrected. "Well, dead Altmer."

Brynjolf tore his eyes away from the letter to look at me. "Got in the way, did he?"

I nodded. "Plus I hate High Elves, so…"

Brynjolf laughed at that, but didn't comment. Instead, he asked, "This symbol at the top… ever seen it before?"

I padded over to get a better look. After scrutinizing it a moment, I shook my head. "No, sorry. Looks sort of like a Shadowmark, though."

"Damn," he muttered. "This isn't signed, either."

"So now what?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I'll talk to Mercer. You go get a drink; you look like you could use one."

I laughed, and tapped my forehead. "I like the way you Nords think."

I could hear him laughing all the way to the Ragged Flagon.


	7. Into the Realm of Lady Vaermina

**Hey all you readers and lurkers, thank you so much for reviewing :) I really appreciate you taking the time to tell me what you honestly think of my writing**

-)

That night, Vaermina had me in a vice grip.

_I stood in a great manor on the Summerset Isles, the classic glass and gossamer shadows dancing across the place. Alinor, the capital, gives me a headache every time I'm there, without fail. Of course, that might just be because it was the Homeland of the High Elves. Bloody Altmer._

_ I was dressed in Elven finery, something even then I was unaccustomed to. I missed my armor, my sword. I had magic still, sure, but sometimes you just need to bash something's head in. Though, I suppose, it was probably for the best that I had no weapon—I would have done exactly that._

_ My mother stood next to me, telling me to stop fidgeting and get my head on straight. "This is important for our House and family, Tiberia," she hissed to me. "Please, conduct yourself admirably." _

_ My father had been out of the picture for years now, already a resident of the planes of Oblivion. Therefore, it fell to my mother to arrange marriages for her three daughters. We were fairly high-ranking in House Redoran (and that house is the reason I cannot worship the Nine in good conscience, I feel), so my mother didn't have such a difficult time of it. But lucky me, I was the youngest daughter. And therefore, Altmer fodder._

_ "I understand, mother," I said tonelessly. I had never met my fiancé before, and even though this was before my full-blown hatred for High Elves, I still found the lot of them to be arrogant bastards._

_ We were ushered into a great hall by a few guards, and my fiancé's family greeted us warmly enough. Altmer are well-known for their strict laws on marriage and reproduction, for the sole reason that they want to maintain the image of the Aldmer, their ancestors. I couldn't imagine they were too thrilled to be marrying their son off to some Dunmer girl, but their political ambitions outweighed their distaste._

_ That was the first time I saw him: Cyrano, of House Feliciano. _

_ Altmer, even I will admit, are exceptionally beautiful creatures. His skin was an even bronze, with the famous High Elf high cheekbones and deep brown eyes. His face was narrow, with hollowed-out cheeks and thick brown hair, with the telltale widow's peak. He, like the rest of his race, was exceptionally tall; I barely came up to his chin. But these features were blurred by the arrogance with which he carried himself._

_ "So you're my fiancée," he mused, taking my hand and kissing my calloused fingers. "I must say, you're rather pretty, for a Dunmer." He was lying, of course. I look like a freaking miscolored Nord._

_ That dinner was the longest I've ever sat through in my life. Listening to my mother barter my life away for political power and trade routes stole my appetite. But hell, who ever paid attention to the bride?_

_ And then the scene changed._

_ "You are _mine_," Cyrano hissed, gripping my wrists so tightly I couldn't break free. "Understand?!"_

_ I spat in his face, and he crushed me against he wall all the harder. I have never felt so helpless in my life. It was then and there that I promised myself I would never feel this useless in my life. Never again. _

_ "Understand?" he growled._

_ "Bloody Altmer," I hissed back._

_ He slapped me so hard I saw stars. He would later blame the bruise on my clumsiness, and my mother and his family would all look the other way. And I decided then I wasn't going to marry this asshole._

_And then the scene changed._

_I was locked in an underground prison cell. Well, it wasn't technically a cell—I had a bed, a desk, a pointlessly ornate chamber pot, and some quills and ink. But it was underground and I never saw the sun. "This is what you get for trying to escape," Cyrano said, from the doorway, shaking his head. "Do try to behave yourself until the wedding, dear."_

I was snapped out of sleep by an oddly familiar voice calling my name. I jerked awake, scrabbling for the steel dagger under my pillow and drenched in a cold sweat. My breathing was heavy, and my eyesight was unfocused. The subterranean darkness… the _darkness! _It was terrifying.

"Tiberia!" said the voice again. Rough. Masculine. _Not Altmeri, though. Not nearly condescending enough. _

I blinked a few more times, and realized it was Brynjolf hunched over by my cot. "Where… am I?"

"The cistern, lass," Brynjolf said, clearly wary of the dagger. "Put that away; I'm not going to hurt you."

How many times had I heard that before, I wonder? Nevertheless, I stashed the dagger back under my pillow, and sat up fully now.

"You were thrashing about something fierce in your sleep." Brynjolf offered the information up in a quiet voice. "Everything alright?"

"Just… Lady Vaermina…" I shook my head. "Thank Azura, it was just a dream."

"Tiberia," Brynjolf said, a bit firmer now, "_are you alright?"_

I was glancing worriedly about the cistern now, feeling that deep-seated need to get _out._ Out into the light, the fresh air. Brynjolf somehow read my mind, because he pulled me to my feet. "Come on, lass. Let's get you outside. Grab your swords… aye, that's it, no need to be stupid. Come on." He half-led, half-dragged me out the secret entrance and down to the docks. At this time of night, they were utterly deserted, and the smell coming of the lake was almost as soothing as the breeze itself. It smelled—felt—clean, pure, and free of decay.

Brynjolf set me down on the edge of the one of the piers, and plunked himself down next to me. "I'm not going to ask you again," he said in all seriousness. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I said, already calming down now that I was out in the open air. "Just a visit from Lady Vaermina."

"Yeah, you mentioned her," he said, surveying the lake. "I'm not a devout of the daedra—who is she?"

"Vaermina is the Daedric Prince whose sphere is nightmares, and from whose realm evil omens come," I quoted.

"So you had a nightmare?" At my nod, Brynjolf relaxed a tad. "Well, odd as it sounds, that's a relief. I'm never sure what goes on when daedra get involved. I was beginning to worry you wouldn't wake up the same woman you fell asleep as." He paused. "If you don't mind my asking, what was it about?"

I debated a moment whether or not to tell him. On the one hand, Brynjolf was as close to a friend as I'd ever really had, and seemed genuinely concerned. How could he have an ulterior motive? I was already in the damn Guild. On the other hand, Keerava's reaction earlier was a painful reminder of why I tried to keep my distance from people. They always end up disappointed in me, most to a rather lethal degree.

In the end, I made the stupid choice.

"My past," I answered slowly. "Seeing that High Elf earlier reminded me of things I'd rather forget."

The wind rippled across the water, making my unbraided hair dance. "Everyone's got things they'd rather forget, Tiberia, but don't hide in the shadows of your own mind," Brynjolf replied quietly. "What did High Elves do to you?"

Might as well get it all out. Keerava already knew some of the story, anyway. "I was engaged to one, once, as a political ploy." I snuck a glance at the Nord, but his face remained impassive. "But that was years ago… long before I moved to Skyrim. He was arrogant, and cruel, and poised to become a high-ranked Thalmor in a matter of years." My voice dropped to barely more than a fierce whisper: "And I hated him."

"That does not a happy marriage make," Brynjolf observed dryly.

"Thankfully we were never married," I said. "I shudder to think how that would have ended."

"With the death of a certain Altmer, I'm certain," Brynjolf said with a crooked smile. When he saw that I wasn't laughing, it dropped. "Tiberia…"

"He'd just come after me," I interrupted. "Probably not with the Dark Brotherhood, but he would."

Brynjolf sat there stoically a moment. "Can I make you a deal?" He finally said.

"I'm listening," I answered, drawing my knees up to my chest, and wrapping my arms around them, forming a compact ball.

I turned to look at him, and felt those emerald eyes boring into me. "Let's start this over, and be entirely honest, shall we?"

My brow furrowed. "I have been honest." _For once._

"Not this conversation," Brynjolf said, waving me off, "you and me. You lied when you told me you'd been in Skyrim a few months, and I knew it then. You knew the entire _Song of the Dragonborn; _there was no other explanation. But I didn't press the matter because I knew there had to be a reason you were lying. But you're a part of the Guild family, now. So I have to know, as your superior and more importantly, as your _friend—_is there someone after you?"

The revelation shocked me. This Nord was more astute than most I'd met; I'd have to be more careful around him. _Damn, _I knew I couldn't trust him. My head still reeling, I said, "It's quite possible, yes."

"Damn," he cursed softly next to me. "Is that why you were a mercenary?"

"A part of it," I admitted. "And partly because I couldn't face myself in the mirror."

The wind kicked up again. "Why not?"

I sighed. "One of the three virtues of the Elven House Redoran is duty. Duty to one's family, honor, and clan. I betrayed all three when I ran from the Summerset Isles."

"They betrayed you by forcing you into an arranged marriage," Brynjolf countered.

I smiled a sad little smile. "It doesn't work like that when you're a daughter, at least not in my family. That's the beauty of Skyrim—anyone can be anything. Gender, race, fighting style, political convictions… it doesn't matter. A Khajiit can be a Companion. An Orc can fight for the Imperials. A Nord can spend his days roaming the lands as a bard. It just doesn't _matter."_

We sat there in brittle silence a while, watching the moons and stars dance across the sky. "All I can tell you, Tiberia, is that the Guild is a family," Brynjolf finally said. "Please, treat it like one. For your own sake as much as ours. And don't shut me out, either. I'm not going to stab you as soon as you turn your back."

He stood then, and offered me a hand. A peace offering, a leg up, a solid presence. A friend.

And, even though my instincts were screaming at me not to, I took it.


	8. Romulus and Remus

**So my hometown has been hit by a bunch of storms recently, so my power keeps going in and out. I think it's become a running gag to the power gods, whoever they may be…**

**And once again, thank you to all you readers and lurkers :) Glad you enjoy my writing**

-)

I was sitting at the bar in the Ragged Flagon, shooting the breeze with Vekel the Man, when Delvin Mallory sidled up beside me. It had been a week since the incident with my nightmares, and I was itching to get going with some more Guild work. Exhaustion usually sent Lady Vaermina running.

"Evenin', Tiberia," he said, with that broken nose accent of his. Beneath it lay a thick Breton one. "I don't think we've ever been properly introduced." He held up a hand. "Delvin Mallory, at your service."

I smirked and shook the proffered hand. "Brynjolf speaks very highly of you."

"Does 'e now?" Delvin asked, brows knitting together. "That's news."

I snorted. "So what can I do for you?"

"I'm glad you asked," said the thick Breton with a grin. "I have a few extra jobs that need extra hands. Care to take on a few?"

I grinned. Now I was getting down to the thieving, which, I am only slightly ashamed to say, I enjoyed. It beat sitting around the Flagon, anyway. I hate sitting around; makes my teeth itch. "What have you got?"

He sized me up a moment. "From what I 'ear, you'll do well at a Bedlam job. And decently at a Shill job." He paused. "Can you read and write?"

I cocked an eyebrow. "You're asking the _Elf_ if she knows how to read and write?" I snorted. "Which language? Tamrielic? Dunmeris? Daedric?" _Draconic?_

Delvin held his hands up, palms facing in. _A mage, then. Interesting. _Mages placate with their palms facing themselves because it means 'hey, I'm not about to blast you to Valenwood with a fireball.'I'd never seen easygoing Delvin pick up anything much more lethal than a broken bottle of mead, however. Must be leftover from his days before he ran with the Riften Thieves Guild—there were rumors, after all, of his admittance to the Dark Brotherhood. "Just a formality, lass. I assumed Vipir could do sums, and that job went 'orribly…"

Then his opening statement hit me. "What have you been hearing?"

Delvin actually laughed at that one. "Mercer tells me you're an absolute terror with a blade—reminds 'im of 'im." I'd been regularly sparring with Mercer Frey in the training room, mostly because when he tested my mettle, he was pleasantly surprised to discover I could hold my own against him. I was, apparently, the only one, because Brynjolf preferred war axes to the blade and Mercer nearly took off Thrynn's head last time they sparred. "And Vex tells me you're damn good at lockpicking. Didn't you get the master chest open without a broken pick?"

I snorted. "I had four broken ones. Where are you getting your information from?"

"I'll never tell," Delvin smirked in reply. I could tell I'd just passed some sort of test. "But, Vipir tells me you can't pickpocket to save your life, and I _know _you don't 'ave the patience to sneak around for much more than ten seconds."

"Long as takes to get from the door to the stairwell," I quipped.

"And given the other bits and pieces of your personality I've noticed? You're just too damn loud to be a sneakthief."

I actually started laughing at that. "So why am I here, again?"

Delvin snorted. "Because we're low on luck, and if there's one thing you _'ave _got, it's luck. Goldenglow without a hitch? Intimidation without even drawing a blade or casting a spell? We've got steady protection money coming in now, since all the merchants in town are terrified of our new Lower Operative. You'll make a 'ell of an enforcer, Tiberia, if Brynjolf can straighten you out."

I tossed a sarcastic salute towards the surface world, where Brynjolf was once again touting the harmless merchant act. "Tell him good luck. Everyone who's ever tried clearly has never made a dent." That one got Delvin roaring with laughter, so much so that Vex, Tonilia, and Rune all whipped their heads around towards the source of the noise. Delvin and I both waved them all off. "So what's a Bedlam job, what's a Shill job, and why do you ask if I'm literate?"

Delvin cracked another slimy grin. "Bedlam job, you go steal five hundred Septims' worth of stuff or so from a Hold. Keep whatever you find, but if you get caught, we've never 'eard of you. Savvy?"

"Savvy."

"Vex is in charge of the Shill jobs—and most of the breaking and entering jobs, really. She could tell you in more detail, but basically Shill jobs are the result of us needing to get rid of someone. But we're not the Dark Brotherhood; no killings, understand?"

I nodded. "Yes, Mercer warns me every time I leave on a job."

Delvin's eyes widened marginally, but his facial expression was back to normal so quickly, I could've imagined it. "So we plant stolen merchandise in someone's home, tip off the guard, and that's the end of that. But, like I said, Vex handles those.

"I ask if you can read and write because of the Numbers jobs. We do a little skimming off merchants all across Skyrim—then we send someone in to make sure they never know the difference. Now, I 'ope you were paying attention, because I'm not explaining everything again. Which you want, Bedlam, Shill, or Numbers?"

"I'll take a Bedlam job."

Delvin nodded. "Always a good choice. I've got one in Whiterun. Get to it."

My insides were suddenly churning. Whiterun was where I considered my home to truly lie. Not Windhelm, not Morrowind, and _certainly _not Riften. "So why do we do extra jobs?" I asked in an effort to make my gut stop squirming.

Delvin leaned against the bar, no longer perched on a stool, and fixed me with a level gaze. "Take a look around, Tiberia. This place was busy as the Imperial City two decades ago. The Thieves Guild has lost its influence in a lot of cities."

"Why's that?" I asked, folding my arms across my sternum.

Delvin shrugged. "Mercer says it's just bad luck, and Brynjolf's just pissed his recruits keep dying, and Vex never believed in luck, anyway, but I say we're cursed."

"Cursed?" I blinked in confusion. "By what? Or whom?"

"Well now, that's the thing," Delvin admitted. "We don't know what or whom. But something out there is piss-drunk mad at us. And the only way we're gonna get this Guild back on top is by spitting in the face of whatever it is, and rebuilding. And that means doing jobs in cities, and restoring our good family name."

"Cute speech," barked Vex from her usual spot by the crates. "But it's just plain ol' bad luck, Delvin. There's nothing supernatural about this Guild, or anyone in it."

Mercer, who happened to be walking by at the time, doubled over with laughter at the whole exchange.

-)

Ah, Whiterun. It had been a while since I'd been back in this city. I had missed this clean, bustling metropolis. Windhelm is too cold for the likes of me, and Riften smells like fish (and I have other issues with the place), but Whiterun… I liked Whiterun. I planned on settling down here once the war was over, if I even lived that long. So the question became, how to steal from it without pissing off everyone? Or worse, the Companions. I shuddered to think of Vilkas' temper if I got caught for petty thievery. But as I wandered into the city, greeted by Adrianne Avenicci who asked how my armor was holding up, and Hulda from the Bannered Mare asking me to drop by and have a drink and tell her some stories, and Vignar Gray-Mane who missed seeing me around Jorrvaskr, I realized something. I didn't have the heart to steal from these good, gods-fearing people. From some arrogant High Elf, sure. But not from Eorland, who made my trusty Skyforge steel sword. Not from Balgruuf, who awarded me the title of Thane of Whiterun. Not from Jon Battle-Born, the only one with any sense in his clan. _No, no, no. _So I did what any good Dovahkiin would do:

I stole from myself.

I unlocked Breezehome with my spare key, and was immediately greeted by Lydia, who asked me how I'd been and how I was holding up. Fine, I told her, but I can't stay long. I'm here on official Stormcloak business, just need a few things that I'd stored here over the years. Lydia nodded—me dropping in for reasons like this was not uncommon—and turned back to the pot she was stirring.

"So how goes your relationship with that new Companion, Claudius?" I asked as I scoured the house, looking for things to add up to the amount Delvin told me. Said Companion had been a whelp when I'd left, and hadn't gotten the chance to properly get to know him.

Lydia smiled. "It goes well, thank you my Thane. Maybe someday we'll make the trip to Riften to make it official."

"Glad to hear it, Lydia," I said in all honesty. It was good to see her happy. "You'll make a fine wife and mother someday."

My housecarl smiled. "Hopefully, a better one than adventuring sidekick." These days, she freely admitted that she had never truly been the adventuring type. And I freely admitted how much she aggravated me because of that. (Really Lydia, _really!? _Did you have to step on _every single trap _on the way here?!)

I walked away with a few gemstones, a ring, and an enchanted ebony dagger. More than enough to cover Delvin's minimum. Lydia bade me farewell, and I stepped back out into the Whiterun sunshine. I was halfway to the gate when I heard a familiar voice behind me. "Morwyn? By the Nine, is that you, Little Elf?" I turned, exposing my face to the owner of the voice. "It _is _you!" I felt myself enveloped in a bone-crushing hug.

"Farkas, you're going to break a rib!" I managed to get out.

The man with the strength of Ysgramor set me down again. He was as Nordic as they came, with brown hair to his shoulders, gray eyes, thick build, strong jawline complete with traditional goatee. He was also a part of the Companions' inner Circle, as I had once been. Only difference was, he stuck around, whereas I handed my title of Harbinger off, and went off to fulfill my duty as Dovahkiin. Farkas, though enormous, was a kindly fellow, until you got on his bad side. A tad simpleminded, perhaps, but a good, honest man.

"I haven't seen you since you joined the Stormcloaks!" he exclaimed. "You owe me a dragon-slaying story, Harbinger! Hell, you probably owe me multiple, at this point." He paused. "Hey, everyone will want to see you. Come on!" He not-so-gently nudged me in the direction of Jorrvaskr.

"I can't stay, Farkas." I hated to see his face fall so far, so fast, but if I walked into Jorrvaskr I would afraid I wouldn't be able to leave again. The Companions were like my family, but duty called. The Stormcloaks called. The Thieves Guild called. "I just stopped by Whiterun to grab some things from my home here."

"It'll be dark soon," Farkas argued, gesturing to the sky. "At least stay the night with us. You don't want to be out there anymore than we _want_ you out there. Come on…" He nudged me again in the direction of the mead hall of the Companions. "You know you want to.

Of course I wanted to, that was the bloody problem! "Farkas, stop it."

"You leave me no choice," he said sadly, and without warning slung me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing and set off for Jorrvaskr.

"Really, Shield-Brother!?" I said in complete disbelief. I wasn't dumb enough to try and wriggle free, but I would sure as hell attack him verbally. "Really, you're doing this? Augh, this is so undignified."

"Wouldn't've had this problem if you'd just come with me," he said in a cheery singsong.

"Oblivion take you!" I cursed, and he laughed.

He burst through the doors of Jorrvaskr with me still slung over his shoulder. "Hey guys, look who I found!"

It wasn't until he had everyone's attention that he set me upright on my feet again. I slapped him, and still he laughed. Farkas has a sense of humor like that. "Harbinger Morwyn!?" was the general cry from the rest of the hall.

For the second time in ten minutes, I felt myself crushed in a bruising hug. "Morwyn, by the Nine! We thought we'd lost you!" Vilkas exclaimed.

If Farkas had the strength of Ysgramor, his twin brother Vilkas had the smarts. The Wolf Twins, I like to call them. They're almost entirely identical, except for the previously mentioned smartness factor, and also the fact that Vilkas was a tad smaller in build and preferred a full beard. Well, sort of. It was mostly stubble. He was just as much a terror on the battlefield as his brother, and he was someone whose battle prowess I greatly admired, but he didn't have Farkas' all-out, brute strength. And that was good.

"Vilkas, put her down," Aela the Huntress admonished good-naturedly. "You're going to break her."

Aela was the only female member of the Circle that was still an active member of the Companions. The woman embodied strength and graceful power in her form and fighting style. Her hair was a warm russet, and hung to her shoulders without any adornments. She wore armor stolen off a dead Draugr, which didn't really cover anything vital, but that was Aela for you. Taunting her opponents without even lifting a finger. Her eyes, like the Wolf Twins', were a glittering silver. All three of them wore war paint (the Twins' haphazardly smeared around their eyes), but Aela made the effort of a design. Hers was three thick stripes drawn diagonally across her face.

"I'm not going to break the bloody Dunmer," Vilkas huffed as he released me, his hands lingering longer than technically necessary. "She's probably more likely to break _me._

"And don't you forget it," I told him with a laugh.

Farkas pressed a tankard of mead into my hand and that was the end of it. I was in the main room of Jorrvaskr for the rest of the evening and well into the night telling stories of my life as Dragonborn. I told them of Sovngarde, meeting Ysgramor and fighting alongside him to take down the World-Eater, for the umpteenth time. I told them of some of the quests I'd done for various Daedra, not the least of which was pulling my patron, Sheogorath, out of retirement (got the Wabbajack out of that one). I told them of my time with Ulfric Stormcloak, of fighting alongside the Nord hero. The Companions try to remain neutral during wars like this—they're not mercenaries, they often say, but warriors—but that didn't mean they had no political views at all.

It was well past three in the morning when I collapsed into my bed downstairs. As one of the Circle, I had my own room separate from the whelps. As Harbinger, however, I was entitled to the Harbinger's quarters at the end of the hall. I had named Vilkas Harbinger-Regent in my absence (the closest I could come to passing off the title), but he refused to take the Harbinger's quarters. Damnable man was stubborn like that, even after he gave up the Beast Blood. He, Farkas, and I all had, and so Aela was alone in her struggle to contain the Beast within.

I sat down on the edge of my bed, feet firmly planted on the ground, head in my hands. I focused on nothing but breathing in and out, in and out, in and out… My steel armor lay in a pile at the foot of my bed, and I sat in the murky dusk that is Jorrvaskr in my underthings—linen pants and matching shirt. That darkness—the Jorrvaskr darkness—used to be as familiar to me as my own face. But now, it seemed alien, and angry. (Also, notably, like my face as of late.) Almost as though the loss of my Beast Blood made the dark that much more terrifying. _In and out, Tiberia. In and out, in and…_

"Morwyn?" A rough voice cut into my thoughts. "You doing alright? You didn't seem like yourself tonight."

I glanced up, and found myself snared in Vilkas' steady gaze. _Shit. _He stood in my doorway, holding a flickering jar candle in one hand. "I'm fine, Vilkas," I said at once, attempting to brush off his concern. "Just… going through a lot right now. No need to worry about me." I put up a weak smile. "I'll be fine."

"False," he said, fully entering my room now and taking the spot on my bed next to me. He left the door wide open. "Little Elf, we always worry for you."

When one of the Wolf Twins falls into the plural, he usually means himself and his brother, occasionally Aela, too. "Please don't," I said, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees again. "I don't want your death on my hands too."

"Who said I let it worry me in battle?" he scoffed. Then his expression lost its mirth. "Is it your nightmares?"

I cannot tell you how many times during my stint with the Companions that I sat in the main hall late at night and stared at the fireplace after a nightmare terrified me into waking. Vilkas often used to do the same thing when his Beast Blood kept him awake, and the two of us became friends in those restless hours. "No, not those. I've learned to deal with Vaermina."

"Your family, then?" he prodded. "Err, your House?"

I shook my head. _You get points for trying, Jergenson._ "Clan is the word you're looking for, and no, I've learned to deal with that, too. I've accepted that I can never return to Morrowind. Not so disgraced as I am. Skyrim is my _home, _Vilkas. Has been for the last seven or eight years. Besides, there's nothing but the dead waiting for me in my ancestral lands anymore."

Vilkas, a born-and-bred Son of Skyrim, found this unfathomable. I could see it in his eyes. "Something with Ulfric, then?"

"No, he's still as stubborn and pigheaded as ever," I half-laughed, half-complained. "Blasted Nord… no offense."

Vilkas snorted. "Or something with the Thalmor? Everyone knows you hate High Elves."

"No, though I _do _hate the arrogant bastards. Outlawing Talos worship…" I tsked in annoyance. I may not worship Talos like the Nords, but he was Dragonborn and therefore kin. "How dare they tell men and Mer how to worship!"

The candle flickered between us in silence a moment, then he said, "A man, then."

Usually, my reply to that would be, "That would require a man, smart one." or "Very funny, genius."

Usually.

But this time, my retorts caught in my throat. Unbidden, I thought of the Guild. Or, I suppose more accurately, its good-natured, no-nonsense Second-in-Command, who had more or less taken me under his wing over my time with the Guild. (And actually, even the time before that. He'd been looking out for me, even before I joined ranks.)

Vilkas understood my silence. Living half your life as a wolf makes you rather good at that. "Thought so," he said with a sad sort of smile.

"It's not like that," I said, my head still in my hands. "He's just a friend."

"Sometimes 'just a friend' becomes 'spouse' quicker than you'd think," he replied. He was referring to his brother and Aela, I knew. Or maybe he was referring to something else entirely.

Finally, I sat up, squaring up to Vilkas' unwavering gaze. "What if I told you the Stormcloaks were having me risk more than my life?"

To anyone else, this would have made no sense. What is more than life, they would ask. But the Circle gets it. We risked our afterlives, becoming werewolves. "They didn't make you a Vampire, did they?" Vilkas asked, instantly alarmed.

"No," I shushed him quickly. "Not quite that literally."

"Hmm." He sat back now, reminding me of a wolf crouched in the darkness. The wolf he used to be.

I thought of the warm Tonilia, who often joked with me like my older sisters. I thought of the cold Vex, who despite her front, gave advice on almost anything if I asked it and she was in the right sort of mood. I thought of the crafty Delvin, who kept the Guild afloat with his numerous old friends and contacts. I thought of the open-hearted Rune, who always had a minute to chat, even if it turned out to be about nothing. Lastly, I thought of the good-natured Brynjolf, my first real friend in Azura knows how long.

"To be a good Stormcloak," I said slowly, realizing this fact for the first time myself, "I'll have to betray some of the only people to care about me since moving to Skyrim."

Vilkas instinctively knew I wasn't referring to the Companions, so that wasn't his concern. Instead, he asked, "How far are you willing to go for your political ideals?"

When I had started, the answer had been, "As far as it takes to eradicate the Empire." But this had nothing to do with the Empire. This was between me, Ulfric, and the ten-odd thieves living under Riften. "Not that far," I said quietly.

"That's good," Vilkas said sagely. "Then you know your limits. I was beginning to think you didn't have any." He grinned to let me know he was joking, but he dropped it as soon as he realized I didn't find it amusing in the slightest. "Look, Morwyn…"

"Vilkas, I can't do it," I interrupted, panic beginning to color my voice.

"Then don't," he said firmly. "Ulfric Stormcloak doesn't own you. You swore an oath, aye, but if he won't let you serve, then by the Nine, _don't."_

I thought back to what I'd told Ulfric of the Guild. He knew the heads, and the names of most of the operatives through some way or another. But how to throw him off their scent? Easy. _I'd _throw him off. I'd lie—lie through my teeth—and lie some more, until these thieves who took me and made me family were safe. I knew then and there, I was casting my lot with these unlucky thieves, but somehow, I'd never felt freer. "I won't," I said quietly, but firmly.

Vilkas nodded his approval. "Look, Morwyn, all I can tell you is this. This…" he tapped his chest with a few fingers. "...and this…" He tapped his gut with a fist. "…will never steer you wrong. But this…" he tapped his temple with a few fingers. "…and this…" he gestured to his nether regions. "…will. Before you risk your life, choose wisely what to follow."

He disappeared out of my room, then, taking the light with him.


	9. Dampened Spirits

**Once again, thank you so much to all you readers and lurkers :) But particularly, thanks to the reviewers :)**

-)

I approached the Ragged Flagon from the Ratway, which was odd for me since I hate the place, but I needed the time alone to think. Also pray, but Azura wasn't being very forthcoming with information. Neither was Hermaeus Mora, which I found odd.

Before I'd left Jorrvaskr, Aela had approached me and pressed an Amulet of Mara into my hand. "For luck," she said with a wink. I could only figure Vilkas had told Farkas, who'd told his wife I was having issues with the opposite gender. I had rolled my eyes, thanked Aela regardless, and set off for Riften.

That Amulet was now slung around my neck—along with my Amulet of Talos—and hiding under my armor. I wasn't looking for marriage (by the Nine, no), but in reality had no other place to put it. My pack was already jammed full with Delvin's bedlam job.

I kicked open the door to the Ragged Flagon that afternoon and immediately felt some of the tension leave my shoulders. I'd never felt this at ease in my life, yet the Ragged Flagon—with my Guild brothers and sisters—had me calm. It was right then that I knew I'd made the right decision back in Whiterun. One made with my gut and my heart.

"Whiterun has been successfully terrorized," I announced to Delvin once I was within earshot.

He and Brynjolf, the latter of which sitting across the table from him, both laughed at that. "Excellent," Delvin laughed, raising his tankard to me. "It's good to hear Whiterun can still _be_ fully terrorized."

Brynjolf was rolling his eyes. "By the way, Tiberia, Maven Black-Briar came by here earlier, asking for you. She said she'd be at the Bee and Barb. If I were you, I'd head over there. _Right now."_

I nodded. "On my way." And I disappeared into the Cistern.

Out of respect for Keerava, I changed out of my Guild armor and into my old Steel set (Tonilia watched my back for that one) before using the secret entrance/exit in the cemetery to get back up to the city. Once topside, I made my way over to the Bee and Barb, but not before giving myself the once-over to make sure it didn't look like I'd been living in a sewer. (Mostly because I had).

I burst through the door and was immediately greeted by Talen-Jei, asking where I'd been and how I was. Thankfully, I was spared a lengthy tirade by his wife, who greeted me like a long-lost daughter and said, "Maven Black-Briar has been looking for you. She's upstairs at a private table; best not keep that woman waiting."

I thanked the Argonian couple and headed up the stairs. I glanced about the top floor, looking for the woman in question. Upon spotting an alcove tucked away from wandering eyes, I padded over, my steel armor clanking and clattering unfamiliarly. "What in the name of Oblivion to you want?" asked a cool, commanding voice.

An older Nord woman, raven-haired and well-dressed, sat lounging by this so-called "private table." Her face was narrow, harsh, almost hawkish, with eyebrows that arched highly over dark, calculating eyes. She was a hard sort of pretty, in a should-have-been-a-stripper kind of way. She was dressed in fine clothes, but still had a dagger slung through her belt. This was Riften, after all.

"Brynjolf sends his regards," I said, folding my arms across my chest.

She studied me a moment with new eyes. "You don't look so impressive to me," she scoffed.

"I hate to disappoint," I smirked. "If you'd rather take care of business on your own…"

"Oh, hush, child," she snarled, and proceeded to tell me about how her meadery business was being held by the throat by her competitor, Honningbrew Meadery. She told me that I was to talk to an Imperial by the name of Mallus Maccius at the Bannered Mare in Whiterun, and I had two objectives:

Run Sabjorn, the owner of Honningbrew meadery, out of business

Find out how he funded this endeavor so quickly.

"Consider it done," I said confidently. "I just have two questions." At Maven's nod, I continued. "One—where is Honningbrew Meadery located?"

"It's just outside Whiterun," Maven said, and inwardly I cursed at having just _been _in Whiterun. "Around the farms and plains surrounding the city."

"And two," I began, choosing my words carefully, "how did you become allied with our organization? That is, if you don't mind telling."

Maven actually chuckled at that, and I couldn't believe my ears. "My family has always been allied with the… what did you call it? Organization? That's brilliant. Did Brynjolf come up with that?" At my nod, she continued. "I daresay, your organization owes its survival as much to my family as it does to its own people."

_Interesting. The Black-Briars are allied with the Guild. Ulfric needs to… _I would have slapped myself if I hadn't been in public. Ulfric needed to know _nothing, _but old habits die hard. "Looks like I'm headed to Whiterun," I said with a nod.

Maven nodded back, then gave me another quick once over. "I do hope Brynjolf sent me someone with a spine this time."

I smirked: "Keep the faith, Madam Black-Briar." and then departed for the Cistern again.

Once down in that cavern again, I dug my Guild armor out of my trunk. I felt awkward and uncomfortable changing in that open room in those days, but the rest of my Guildmates were so used to doing so that it no longer bothered them. Glancing about to make sure I was more or less alone, I quickly slid out of my clunky steel armor and into the leather armor of the Guild. I was just lacing up my bracers when I heard a familiar lilt ask me, "Bloody hell, Tiberia. Is that an Amulet of Mara?"

I turned to Brynjolf without pausing my lacing. "If you say so," I said, deciding to play the fool, and tapped the golden disc that lay exposed outside my armor.

Brynjolf wordlessly brushed my hand away and began fixing the laces on my bracers. "Let me ask you something, my friend. Are you aware of how marriage works in Skyrim?"

"The same it does everywhere else, I'd assume," I shot back. "And thanks by the way." I nodded at my arms.

Brynjolf laughed, and waved away my thanks. "Not the literal marriage, the process of getting there?"

"Then, no… Though I'm assuming it has something to do with this?" I tapped the Amulet of Mara with my free hand.

Brynjolf nodded, working his way to the other arm now. "When someone is looking to be married, they wear that Amulet. Then it's just a matter of someone else proposing."

"Shit," I swore. "I knew there was something up when she handed me this…" _Damn you, Aela._

Brynjolf cocked an eyebrow. "She?"

"I ran into an old friend while I was in Whiterun. She handed me this Amulet—for luck, she says. Should've known something was up."

Brynjolf laughed. "I take it your friend is a Nord?"

"Oh yeah," I laughed. "Skyrim, born-and-bred."

"And she dumped an Amulet of Mara on an unsuspecting Dunmer? The nerve!" Brynjolf was joking, but he turned semiserious at his next statement. "So what did Maven want?"

I quickly explained the Honningbrew Meadery problem. "…And y'know what the worst part is? I was _just _in Whiterun."

Brynjolf snorted and clapped me on the back. "Well lass, I'm sure there's a bright side in there _somewhere_…"

"If I find it, I'll let you know," I said flatly, buckling my swords over my hips.

-)

One cross-country trip later (or at least, half of one), I stood just inside the gates of Whiterun. I made my way over to the Bannered Mare, and found my contact sitting a ways away from the main room of the tavern. He was a slimy, sickly looking Imperial, and I knew right when I met him he was bad news. Just the sort of man Delvin seemed to know plenty of. Upon realizing I was with the Guild (the armor helped), Mallus quickly filled me in with all the details concerning our plot to poison the Honningbrew Reserve that the Commander of the Guard was to personally taste later. There was a Skeever infestation, so I'd poison the nest, then the reserve vats.

"That's a genius plan," I said, just after he'd finished. "But you seem a little too feisty about this to just want revenge."

He shot me a look. "Sabjorn treats me little better than a slave. Why wouldn't I want to run him out of business? Besides, if this succeeds, you're looking at the new owner and proprietor of the Black-Briar Meadery West."

"When this succeeds, you mean," I corrected lightly.

"Yes, of course." Mallus shifted on his feet. "_When _this succeeds."

I couldn't help but let sarcasm color my voice. "Keep the faith, my good man."

Mallus caught it. "Just go do Sabjorn's dirty work before he's smart enough to hire someone else!"

I made my way out of the city (mercifully, no Companions spotted me), and over the offending Meadery. I stepped inside, and was instantly greeted with the stink of oversized rodents—Skeevers—and the sight of an overworked owner running around like a chicken with its head cut off. "Do you mind?" the sleazy Nord yelled at me.

I cocked an eyebrow. "Is this how you treat all your customers? Although…" I glanced pointedly to the dead Skeever by my foot. "…with these things, I don't suppose you have many."

"Oh very well, just make your purchase and go!" Sabjorn screamed. "And have you, by any chance, seen a worthless Imperial anywhere?!"

"Yeah loads, you'll to be more specific."

"Oh, the Gray Skin's a comedienne!" Sabjorn seethed. "Stormcloak, are you!?"

I let that one pass without comment. "Why are you looking for an Imperial?"

"He's my good-for-nothing associate, that's why!" Sabjorn growled. "I am supposed to hold a private tasting of my Honningbrew Reserve for the Captain of the Guard in less than half an hour and I can't even find my gods-damned associate! He was _supposed _to take care of these Skeevers…!"

"Pay me, and I'll do it," I said instantly.

He looked at me with new, enterprising eyes. "You came here for mead, yes? I'll pay you in two kegs of the stuff—I'll even throw in a few bottles of the Reserve—just _take care of the damn things!"_

"Sold," I replied, on instinct. I didn't come here to make money; I came here for the Guild.

"Great!" A great weight seemed to be lifted from Sabjorn's shoulders, but his sneer never left his sallow face. "I'll put them right here…" He patted the corner of the counter. "…for you to pick up on your return. Take this, poison the Skeever nest. Don't want these damnable things coming back!" He handed me a few rather large boxes of rat poison. "Don't come back 'til they're gone! They're in the basement."

"Got it," I said, hefting the boxes of poison into the pack on my left hip, and set off for the basement of the infamous Honningbrew Meadery.

The basement reeked of rotten honey and Skeever, both living and dead. I carefully avoided the bear traps set about the place (ineffectively, as it turned out), and threaded my way through the Skeever tunnels. For the first while, it was easy enough. I killed scores of Skeevers, some even bigger than the usual, and a few Frostbite Spiders, no big deal. Then I reached a large cavern and was nearly impaled by an ice spike. It slammed into the wall behind me, having missed me by no more than a few inches.

I glanced up just in time to dodge another one. The man hurling them, a Breton who appeared to live down here, howled, "Stay away from my army!"

_By the Daedra, this man _breeds _Skeevers!?_

I wasted no time jumping into action. I hacked and slashed at the rodents around my feet, hastily throwing up a ward to shield myself from the incoming ice spikes. When the Skeevers were taken care of, I sheathed my sword, dropped the ward and blasted him with a dualcasted Fireball spell. He was blown across the room, and cracked his head against the far wall. Dead.

I jogged over to the Skeever nest, and dumped two and half boxes of the poison into it. No more pesky rodents down here, oh no. I then raided the mad Breton's things—a chest, an alchemy table, and a few other things—and found a journal, identifying said mad Breton as Hamelyn, an ex-mage of the College of Winterhold, who was trying to train Skeevers to exact his revenge on Skyrim for rejecting him. Completely mental, that one.

I continued my way through to the brewery section of the Honningbrew Meadery, and dumped the remainder of the Skeever poison into the vat containing the Honningbrew Reserve (Mallus had told me which one it was). I practically sprinted back to the other side (my stupid ass decided to use the tunnels, instead of the door like a normal person), and reached the main room just in time to see Commander Caius of the Whiterun Guard walk in. "Ah, there you are," Sabjorn said to me 'pleasantly.' "Your payment is here." He tapped the kegs. "Good day to you, madam." He then proceeded to sycophantically fawn all over the Commander.

"Bastard," I muttered under my breath.

"I know," Mallus said next to me.

I practically jumped at the sound of his voice. "When did you…?" I began, but cut myself off and instead growled, "You failed to mention the madman living down there."

Mallus reddened. "Didn't want to go scaring you off…" He was cut off by the gagging noises coming from the Commander.

"You…tried to kill me!" He spluttered, coughing and gagging all the while. "I should have known better than to trust anything _you _brew, after those Skeevers! You are under arrest, in the name of the Jarl!"

"What?! This is absurd!" Sabjorn shouted.

Caius drew his sword and brandished it at Sabjorn. "To the keep with you!" He glanced toward Mallus. "You're his associate, yes?" At the Imperial's nod, he added, "Then this place falls to you."

Watching Sabjorn stumble out of his "humble establishment" at knifepoint almost made me laugh out loud (and it takes a lot to do that). "Well, thank the Divines for that," Mallus commented dryly. "Feel free to take the mead he promised you—we don't have any real money to pay you with, anyway."

I nodded, then remembered, "Where did Sabjorn keep important documents? Maven wants to know."

"In his dresser upstairs," Mallus replied without a second thought. He handed me a key.

"I'm not even going to question how you have this," I muttered, taking off for Sabjorn's quarters.

Once there, I looted the place shamelessly—taking silver ingots, some jewelry, and this weird decanter that I figured I could sell for a reasonably decent amount—before unlocking the dresser. I found a note, signed with the same strange marking from the Goldenglow Job. This couldn't be coincidence. It went into my knapsack and then I was back downstairs again and out into the Whiterun sunshine.

I took the carriage back to Riften (no way was I lugging around two kegs of mead halfway across the province), and arrived around dusk of the following day. I burst into the Bee and Barb, and was instantly greeted by a feral hiss from the Argonians. "How dare you…!" Keerava began, about to reference my armor.

I slammed both kegs onto the counter (the bottles were still in my pack). "These are for you," I said. "And I'll be out in two minutes, tops."

I left the bewildered Argonian woman in my wake and pounded up the stairs to Maven Black-Briar. "What's done is done," I told her breathlessly. "And this is what I found about his partner." I rummaged about for the note in my pack, then handed it to her.

She read it more intently than even Brynjolf would later, and when she glanced back to me, her face was a strange mix of fury and satisfaction. "I'm glad to see Sabjorn out of business," she sniffed. "And take this information to Brynjolf. He'll be interested to know." She handed me the note back.

I nodded—"You got it, Ms. Black-Briar."—and was on my back to the Ragged Flagon when she stopped me.

"Tiberia," she called. I stopped short because I didn't recall ever giving the woman my name. "This is for your services. I think you'll find it payment enough." She slipped a sheathed dagger into my hand.

I glanced down at it, brow furrowed. It was a slim dagger, tapered to a sharp point with a crossguard much wider than the blade. Its sheath was unmarked, but for a single letter O in the Daedric Script—more commonly known as the Conjuration or Oblivion symbol. I knew what this was, alright. I had killed many to get my hands on it, but supposedly, it was sitting under lock and key in a display case in Windhelm. The Daedra were surely making me into their plaything, or perhaps my ancestors just liked seeing me suffer_—_how else would Maven Black-Briar have Mehrunes' Razor?

I eyed the dagger apprehensively. "Where did you get that?"

She merely grirnned wolfishly. "To Brynjolf with you."

Back in the Ragged Flagon, I was still bewildered, trying to come up with a logical solution to suddenly repossess this dagger of mine. Tonilia and Delvin both slapped me on the back in congratulations as I passed, Vekel pressed a bottle of mead into my hand, and even Vex nodded in my general direction. I dumped my heavier gear on my bed, and finally found the Nord I was looking for in the training room.

"Tiberia, how goes it?" he asked, sheathing his sword and turning to face me.

I held up three blue-gray fingers. "Three," I said. "Three jobs pulled off without a hitch."

His eyes went wide and he broke out into a grin. "That's got to be record."

I grinned. "Maven was even _smiling_ when she paid me. And told me to give you this…" I handed him the note from Sabjorn's dresser.

His brow furrowed upon reading it. "It's that same marking…"

"I know; I figured that couldn't be coincidence."

"It can't be." Brynjolf shook his head. "Not in our line of work."

I subconsciously ran my fingers over the hilt of my sword—a nervous habit I keep trying to break. "So what does it mean?"

"I don't know," Brynjolf answered in all seriousness, folding the letter and stashing it in one of his many pockets. But then his expression lightened. "But by the Nine! Three heists in a row, and nothing gone wrong. I can't believe it." He chuckled to himself. "Though, since it's you, I suppose I should say, by the Daedra."

I snorted. "Very funny, insult the Dun—" I never finished that sentence, for at that moment, Brynjolf kissed me, a bit roughly and most definitely unexpectedly.

It was the shock that kept me still, more so than anything else. I'm never entirely sure what to expect out of Brynjolf, but this certainly wasn't it. He had a hand on either side of my face, lips pressed close to mine in such a way that all I could feel was a sort of honest excitement. Over the job, I assumed.

He broke us apart a moment later, but didn't let go of my face immediately, and his eyes were alight. "I need to tell Mercer!" He clapped me on the shoulder and half-jogged from the room, leaving one very confused Dark Elf in his wake.


	10. BlueGray and Sapphire

**Once again, thank you to all you readers and lurkers out there in No Man's land, and especially thanks to my wonderful reviewers :) I wasn't sure I was going to continue this, but now, how can I not?**

**Also, thanks for your patience with my getting chapters posted. Things are starting to get dicey around these parts.**

**-)**

I sat in the Bee and Barb in civilian garb a few days later, drinking and breaking bread with Brand-Shei. It had been a few days since the Honningbrew Job, but that whole shebang left me with more questions than it answered. Who was trying to run the Guild into the ground? That marking surely meant _something_. How had Maven Black-Briar come across Mehrunes' Razor? I—the Dovahkiin—supposedly had that under lock and key in Windhelm. Why was Brynjolf kissing his associates? Nothing good could come of that. He hadn't spoken to me since then incident. As a matter of fact, I was pretty sure he was avoiding me. Out of embarrassment, shame, or something else entirely, I didn't know.

"…And then the Dragonborn came into Riften one day with this waterlogged journal," Brand-Shei was saying. "And it was a letter from my father! Can you believe that?"

"That's crazy," I inputted with a smile. It was lovely to just let Brand-Shei babble and not have to think.

"Turns out," he said, taking a swig from the bottle near his hand, "that I'm the last heir of the Great Elven House Telvanni! The isolated Wizard-Lords of Morrowind still have one! I went to Morrowind a few years back to see that side of my heritage. Amazing place."

My heart ached. "There's nowhere like it."

His brow furrowed. "Do you miss it, at all? Living in Skyrim?"

"Sometimes," I admitted, opting for the truth. "I've been all over Tamriel—Cyrodiil, the Summerset Isles, Skyrim, High Rock—but there's truly nowhere like my ancestral lands."

"You should go back sometime," he said, his red eyes full of honest concern. That is one thing I find unnerving about the human races. Their eyes are so many colors! Not like us elves.

"I wish it were that simple." I stabbed a potato listlessly with a fork. "I don't have anyone or anything to go back to. Red Mountain destroyed the place, and my family… well, we're too broken for it to matter if one wayward daughter comes home."

I felt something pat my hand and I immediately glanced up, startled. "I'm sorry to hear that," Brand-Shei said in his achingly familiar accent. Words stick to the tongues and teeth of these Nords, but the Dunmeri accent I know well. Its familiar cadence harkens back to a time when my mother loved me and great flying lizards weren't trying to kill me. Oh, the good old days. "Why don't you tell me about them? Your family?"

This one really knew where to stick the daggers, didn't he? "I had two older sisters," I said quietly. "Much older. Like, most of a century, older. Both beautiful, both clearly elven. So very different from me. I mean, look at me." I gestured to my face. "I look like a freaking miscolored Nord." I didn't even pause to let him attempt a rebuke. "My father was a high-ranking noble in House Redoran. He taught me and my sisters to fight, to uphold the major virtues of our House and our family name. My mother, on the other hand, was a diplomat. She was sent all over Tamriel, and always came back with the most interesting stories." My face clouded over as I remembered less favorable things about my mother.

Brand-Shei wisely stayed away from more questions about the rest of my blood family. "How'd you end up in Skyrim?"

With a sigh, I drained the last of my tankard. "I was engaged to an Altmer on the Summerset Isles, but there was no way in_ Oblivion _I was going to let that happen. Dear Azura, no. So I ran. And ran. And kept running. Eventually ended up in Skyrim." _And was subsequently branded a traitor and nearly deep-fried by Alduin alongside Ulfric_ _Stormcloak_.

"You win in the story department," Brand-Shei told me in earnest.

I smirked without the usual darkness. "Least I win at _something."_

It was then that I heard the commotion breaking out behind me. I turned to see three of the migrant dockworkers—an Argonian, a Nord, and a Breton—harassing Sapphire. Her fists were clenched tight and the air about her was tense, but for some reason, she was shocked and frozen in place as though… _scared. _I blinked in recoil. Sapphire was never _scared _of anything. She was tough, like me, like Vex, like Tonilia. Something was wrong. So very, very wrong.

"Hey, baby, don't be like that," the Nord growled. I could smell the whiskey coming off him in droves.

"We'll even pay you, if that's your game," the Breton sneered, reaching for Sapphire in a decidedly lewd manner.

The fire was burning in her eyes, but it was competing with sheer terror. Not the kind brought on by drunken dockworkers that need to learn their place, but the cold, harsh realities of life. I couldn't let this go on a second longer.

"Hey," I growled, pushing away from the table and yanking Sapphire from the Breton's grasp. "Say one more word to my sister, and I'll cut your heads off. I'm feeling generous today, so I'll even let you decide which one." I felt a sneer curl into place and one hand was at the ready to dive into my boot, where I stashed Mehrunes' Razor.

"Sisters…? This is not possible," the Argonian scoffed. "She's a Nord, you're a Dark Elf."

"Brilliant deduction," I lauded with a sarcastic bite to my voice.

"Look, you gray-skinned bitch," the Nord fumed, "if you'd rather take her place…"

It was then the Brand-Shei broke into the conversation. "Don't touch her, either."

"And what're you gonna do about it?" the Breton sneered.

Brand-Shei replied with a solid right hook to the face and then all hell broke loose. The Nord threw himself at me, the closest assailant. The Breton and Brand-Shei were locked in another fight, and Balimund, the Riften smith, launched himself at the Argonian before said Betmer had the time to attack.

The Nord threw a clumsy left hook at me, but I ducked and I hooked one foot behind his knees and yanked, knocking him off balance. I drew the dragger from my boot, and slammed the hilt end into the side of his head. I had remembered, last minute, that this was a bar brawl, not a life-or-death fight. He didn't need to die; there was no need to stab him. So he crumpled to the floor under the force of my attack, and a massive bruise blossoming over his temple already. With a grim sort of grin, I turned to find my comrades with the situation easy in hand.

Balimund had the Argonian in a headlock, while the Breton was howling in pain and bolting for the door with his figurative tail between his legs. Brand-Shei had gone back to coax Sapphire out of her stupor, but she was having none of it. I wondered if that had to do with the fact that Brand-Shei was a man.

So, as Balimund threw the Argonian out of the pub bodily, I made my way over to my Guild sister. "Sapphire," I said in a soft voice that I generally reserved for spooked animals and children, "are you alright?"

Her eyes were wide as saucers, and she was staring ahead unblinkingly, and stubbornly refused to answer me.

With a sigh, I turned to Brand-Shei. "I'd better get her home," I gestured to Sapphire, who was still staring into space, terrified. "I don't think she's in her right mind at the moment."

He nodded, understanding. "Good idea. I'll see you around, Tiberia."

I nodded and the two of us parted ways, me dragging Sapphire across Riften to the secret entrance. The night was cool and open, with a gentle breeze blowing in off Lake Honrich. I stopped in the Thieves Guild Mausoleum, and turned to Sapphire. "Look," I said, "I know we're not really _friends, _but you are my Guild sister. So if you want me to go Dark Brotherhood on their asses, just say the word. You know I will."

"I didn't need your help." Her voice was faint, as though she was speaking to me from behind a dream.

No, a memory. She was speaking to me from behind a memory.

"Looked to me like you did," I said, honestly but not unkindly.

She turned to glare at me, slowing coming out of her stupor. "I was going to take care of them."

"When, Sapphire?" I asked pointedly. "You were frozen stiff with fear."

"_I wasn't scared!"_

"Like hell you were!" I snorted. "Look, I know you well enough to know that you that you don't freeze up like that in a fight. There was something else about that situation that made you freeze up in terror." Then it hit me. "A memory of something, I'm sure. Look, you don't have to tell me what happened to you, but for the love of the Daedra, don't lie to me."

She was deathly silent for the longest time. Then she said, very quietly, "How about I tell you a story, Tiberia?" At my nod, she continued. "Once upon a time, a little girl lived on a pig farm with her parents. Well, maybe she wasn't so little—early teens, lets say—and her parents were dirt poor. Didn't have two Septims to rub together. But then one day, their farm was attacked by bandits. Nasty, vicious ones too, who didn't take no for an answer. They killed her parents, who didn't even try to fight. They stole their crops, their livestock, and salted the earth so nothing would grow. Then they abducted the girl and took her with them when the left. And then…"

She was shaking with rage, her hands balled into fists so tight her fingernails were digging into the palms of her hands. I could practically feel the white-hot fury emanating from her. "They passed her around from man to man like a five-Septim whore on a festival night!" She hissed this through clenched teeth. "They kept that up for a fortnight, until one claimed the girl. Over the next while, she managed to gain their trust. Then, one night…" She drew in a sharp breath. "…she stole a dagger, and cut the throats of every last bandit there.

"The girl made her way to Riften, the city of sin where angels fear to tread. Then Brynjolf found her. Had her do a job for him, involving stealing a ring from Madesi's strongbox and planting it in Brand-Shei's pocket. Taught the Dunmer a lesson, and that girl become a member of the Thieves Guild. She took on an alias, and never went back to that pig farm." She paused. "There's nothing for her there, now."

The hard-boiled Nord woman slipped a hand into one of her many pockets and withdrew a square-cut sapphire from its depths. "Isn't it beautiful, in a hard-edged, cold sort of way?"

My mind was reeling from this tale—no wonder she froze up when confronted! "I had no idea…" I trailed off as we descended the steps into the cistern.

"No one does," she answered swiftly. "No one but Tonilia and Brynjolf, anyway. And now you, I guess. Please… don't tell anyone."

I mimed sewing my lips shut. "It's safe with me."

Relief colored her features. "Thank you…" She found her bed and fell in, and I was just about to do the same when I spotted a certain red-headed Nord disappear into the training room.

Forsaking sleep for the moment, I followed him. He was shooting arrows at one of the targets when I rounded the corner. "Brynjolf," I began.

He gave a startled little yelp, and dropped the arrow he had just nocked. Cursing to himself, he dropped to a knee to retrieve it, but I had my foot squarely in the center of said arrow. He glanced up to me and I announced, "We need to talk."


	11. Revenge is Best Served with a Spork

**Thank you once more to all my readers and lurkers, and especially reviewers :) And especially especially thank you to HereLies. I always love getting your commentary and appreciate that you review pretty much every chapter.**

**Can't say what possessed me to churn this one out so quick after the other, but what can I say? Must be some potent Friday the Thirteenth black magic :3**

**Does Skyrim have Sporks? It does now!**

**-)**

"I know," Brynjolf said sheepishly, straightening up to his full height and slinging his bow over his shoulder.

"Why have you been avoiding me?" I asked him bluntly. "What have I done in the past week that has _so offended _you?" The sarcasm was even blunter than my previous sentence. "'Cause whatever it is, I'm sorry."

He was shocked. (I could tell because his accent thickened.) "What have _you _done? Nothing, lass! It's _me_ who should be apologizing…!"

"For_ what?" _My brow furrowed.

His face flushed red as his hair. "For my, ah, _behavior _after the Honningbrew Job. I'm sorry; I'm not usually so forward. That was just the first good news I've heard about this Guild in months, and I sort of… well, let that get the better of me. I hope you'll forgive me; I really do consider you a good friend."

I sighed. These humans and their arcane worldviews. "First off Bryn, to forgive you would mean there was something that needed forgiveness." I smiled weakly. "I forget you humans are rather prudish in comparison to us elves, but if whatever you'd done _wasn't _alright with me, I'd've slapped you already."

He finally met my eyes, but his were clouded over in disbelief. "You mean… you're not mad?"

"Why in Oblivion would I be mad? You're not an Altmer!"

He chuckled weakly at that. "And thank the Divines for that."

I was just shaking my head. "_Honestly, _Brynjolf, you are _far _too embarrassed for what actually happened. It's not like I'm pregnant!"

His expression flattened out. "Don't even joke…"

We were quiet a moment, so naturally, then I had to open the next can of worms—S'CUSE ME—order of business. "Sapphire was getting harassed by some dockworkers at the Bee and Barb earlier," I offered.

His expression darkened. "Hope she put them in their places."

"No, Ihad to."

Brynjolf's brow furrowed. "Why were you at the Bee and Barb?"

I shrugged. "I was catching up with Brand-Shei, but never mind that. These three… they were way out of line."

Something unfamiliar flashed in Brynjolf's eyes as I spoke, but as I finished, it settled on anger—and _that_, I knew. "Sapphire can take care of herself, you know. Not sure she'd take kindly to…"

"She didn't used to be able to," I interrupted pointedly.

His previous sentence fell off a cliff. "You know." It wasn't a question.

"I know," I confirmed. "And being a Dunmer, I want revenge for my Guild sister. Permission to wreak havoc?"

"Granted," Brynjolf said without hesitation. "On the condition that I get in on this. No one makes a fool out of my Guild." He practically growled that last statement.

I nodded. "Get into your armor and meet me topside in ten." As I sipped back into the Cistern, I called over my shoulder, "And be ready to do some heavy lifting!"

-)

"Where are we headed, lass?" Brynjolf asked me as we exited the Cistern by means of the secret entrance, fully clad in Thieves Guild armor, complete with sleeves and the cowls up.

"We have three targets," I said, holding up three blue-gray fingers and sounding very much like the Stormcloak commander I moonlighted as. "A Breton, a Nord, and an Argonian. They're all dockworkers, which means they're probably staying at Haelga's Bunkhouse for the season. Except the Nord—he's probably still facedown in his own drool at the Bee and Barb. All three need to be taught a lesson, and we have…" I glanced to the sky. "…roughly six hours until dawn." My face split into a wicked grin. "Let's do this."

"Which one first?" Brynjolf asked brusquely.

"The Nord," I said without hesitation. "My plan for him is simplest. But this is what I meant about the heavy lifting—he's a big boy."

We slipped into the Bee and Barb, and as I'd figured, the Nord was lying facedown on the floor right where I'd left him. "Him?" Brynjolf asked, nudging the unconscious figure with the toe of his boot.

"Him," I affirmed.

"What do you think you're doing?" Keerava hissed at the two of us.

"Don't mind us, ma'am," Brynjolf said in his most charming voice. "We're just here to pick up our, uh, _friend, _here."

Her expression changed into a smirk of indifference. "Good riddance to him."

Brynjolf got the head while I got the ankles and we shuffled out of the inn and into the marketplace. "Where to?"

"Lake Honrich," I said with a smirk. "Hope you don't mind getting a little wet; I plan to dump him on one of the islands in the middle of it."

Brynjolf burst out laughing as we snuck out of Riften through the side door by Honorhall and Mistveil Keep. We carefully waded into the dark waters of Lake Honrich, each shouldering the Nord by an armpit. I was right; this one was out cold. He didn't feel a damn thing—not the cold water, our rough hands, or even the mudcrab that nipped at our toes. The moons were watching over us carefully, and when we reached one of the little islands I was talking about, we not-so-gently dumped the man onto the cold earth, relieved to be free of that heavy burden.

I reached into the pack on my hip and withdrew an inkwell. Uncapping it, I dipped a finger into the black pigment and appraised the Nord's face. With a smirk, I drew a large diamond around the outer edges of his face, and then drew a careful circle in the center, touching the diamond on all four sides. The mark of the Thieves Guild. Satisfied with my handiwork, I recapped the inkwell and buried it back in my knapsack.

"That's not coming off," Brynjolf observed as we swam back to shore.

"Damn right it's not," I replied.

Next, the Argonian. We made our way over to Haelga's Bunkhouse, still dripping wet. The blonde Nord woman turned her nose up when she saw us. "Brynjolf, I _told _you, I can't pay back the loan until…"

He waved her off. "I'm not here for that, lass—not this time. Is there an Argonian bunking here? A migrant dockworker?"

"Perhaps." Haelga folded her arms across her ample bosom, showing off her Amulet of Dibella in the process. Hmm. So the rumors about this one were true. _Perfect._ "What of him?"

Brynjolf smirked. "I don't believe I mentioned a gender, Haelga."

I raised an eyebrow, rather impressed with the red-headed Nord standing next to me. He was much cleverer than most gave him credit for. Haelga, meanwhile, seemed to realize she'd given herself away. "He's upstairs, but I don't see what…"

"He left something at the Bee and Barb," I swiftly explained. "I was there earlier with him; figured he might want it back."

Haelga shrugged. "It isn't my business what my customers do." She turned away from us then, muttering, "And where _is _that blasted niece of mine?"

We took that as our cue and disappeared upstairs. "What's the plan for this one, lass?" Brynjolf asked me in a low voice.

I smirked. "He wanted to hire Sapphire for a bit of fun, so I figure getting someone else to return the favor ought to do it." At Brynjolf's furrowed brow, I added, "Not us, dimwit. _Haelga. _You know she would—she just needs the right _push_." I mimed pushing someone forward.

Brynjolf actually stopped walking to gawk at me in utter disbelief. "You're… bloody _twisted, _Tiberia_."_

I shrugged, motioned for him to stay put, then disappeared into Haelga's room. My hunch had been correct—the woman already had everything I needed to put together the ruse. I swiped some leather strips and a stamina potion, and smirked at a copy of _The Lusty Argonian Maid I _that she wasn't even bothering to hide. When I reappeared in the hall, I noted the Brynjolf had already found the sleeping Argonian's room. I slipped in behind him, and surveyed the scene. "Him?" Brynjolf asked dryly.

"Him," I affirmed.

Working quickly, I tied the Betmer's hands to the headboard with the leather strips, drained the stamina potion in one quick gulp, and set it next to him. Then I slapped the side of his face, and he woke with a start. "Wha…?" he asked, then recognized my face and began to struggle against his bindings. "You!"

"No one makes a fool of the Thieves Guild," I growled.

Brynjolf, meanwhile, had drawn a dagger and was standing over the Argonian, staring at the blank expanse of wall above the headboard. With a smirk, he carved a diamond into the wood, and then carefully sculpted a circle in the center. He hopped down again and said, "I believe I've made my point."

"There was a Breton with you," I hissed to the Argonian. "Where is he?"

He shook his head, but I slapped him again and held his face steady. "_Where?" _I growled.

Defeated, the Argonian croaked, "Down the hall."

I smirked. "Coward."

Brynjolf and I disappeared back downstairs, still playing our ruse. "Uh… Haelga?" I called.

She reappeared from the back room. "What?" She snapped. "I'm rather busy, you know!"

"We, uhm…" I forced myself to blush, utterly embarrassed. "We found our guy but… I think he's been looking for _you."_

Her brow furrowed. "I don't follow…"

Brynjolf pointedly glanced upwards to where the Argonian's room. "Just go talk to him. You'll understand."

She obliged us, though clearly still confused. We heard her puzzled—and yet delighted—shriek from upstairs, and then the door slam shut. "That takes care of that," I said with a smirk.

"So, the Breton?" Brynjolf prodded. "We're running out of darkness."

I smirked, reaching into my pack again, and this time withdrawing a tub of war paint. "Put some of this on—make sure you're unrecognizable."

He drew a common Nord design on his face, smearing the black paint around his eyes and drawing sharp dagger-like points down to below his chin. For a moment, he reminded me of Vilkas, and I felt an uncomfortable pang in my chest. I ignored it, smearing the paint onto the underside of my hand, then clapping it over my mouth, happy I hadn't painted my face that morning. The result? "Speak no evil," Brynjolf noted as I twisted the cap onto the jar again and stowed it away.

I smiled, happy he'd caught it. "Follow my lead."

We silently made our way back up the stairs, past the Argonian's room, and into the Breton's. We found him wide-awake in bed, staring wide-eyed at the door. He had an iron dagger clutched in one hand in such a way that advertised that he didn't know how to use it. "Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me," I cooed viciously, "for the sins of the Unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

"W-who are you?" The Breton called in a terrified stupor. "What do you want?"

Brynjolf smirked. "Hail Sithis."

Suddenly, the sharp tang of urine filled the room. My nose wrinkled at the smell. "Some men just can't hold their liquor," I observed.

"Don't… don't kill me!" The Breton begged. "I don't even know what I did!"

"I believe the message was, 'no one makes a fool of the Thieves Guild,'" I growled.

There was the unmistakable _shing_ of a dagger being drawn, and Brynjolf held his Orcish dagger up to the whimpering coward's throat. "Shall I send you to meet the Dread Father?" he murmured.

The Breton promptly fainted, and I couldn't help but snort. "What a milk-drinker!"

Brynjolf laughed as well, sheathed his blade, and gestured for me to hand him my inkwell. I did so, and he drew the Guild mark on the Breton's forehead. "Let's get out of here—the smell is killing me."

The sky was beginning to lighten as we reached the Mausoleum. "I'd say this was a successful night of revenge," I said, jokingly matter-of-fact. "Almost."

"I do believe you're right, lass," Brynjolf laughed. Then his brow furrowed. "Wait, almost? Why almost?"

In a flash, I held his face in my hands and kissed him. The paralysis of a surprise kiss works both ways, it seemed to me, and I couldn't help but smirk. I broke us apart after a moment, and Brynjolf was just staring at me like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened. "Now I'm all caught up," I said with a shit-eating grin.

"Gods damn you!" Brynjolf exclaimed, but I could tell he didn't mean it because he was laughing so hard he had an arm against the stone of the Mausoleum to support himself.

"I guess it's true what we say in Morrowind," I called over my shoulder as I descended the steps into the depths of the earth. "Revenge is a dish best served with a Spork!"

"That doesn't even make sense!" Brynjolf called after me.

"Did I say I was trying to?"

I didn't catch _exactly _what he said after that—I was too far into the sewers—but it sounded suspiciously like an exasperated _"Elves!"_


	12. Love, War, Larceny: Dangerous Games

**Hey all you readers, reviewers, and lurkers :) As always, thank you for your time :)**

**And another note: Sadly, there is no Stone of Barenziah in the Castle Fletcher's, but for the purposes of this story, let's just pretend there is one.**

**-)**

Evening Star heralded its arrival with a snowfall like none other. Even Riften, usually one of the warmer cities in Skyrim, had a thick coating of the white stuff before the first week was out. It made the Cistern rather miserable in the temperature department, so much so that we took to building a permanent fire on the circular dais in the middle of the room. And, after an incident where a drunken Thrynn nearly pissed it out, we also appointed someone to look after it. _And_ after another incident where Niruin woke up with frostbitten fingers, Mercer actually ordered us to share beds or somethingbecause it was just too damn_ cold_ to sleep alone. Most of the time, I ended up sharing a cot with Tonilia, who was half-jokingly pining for her beloved Hammerfell by this point. I could sympathize, being from the province with the giant volcano, and all.

I continued doing odd jobs for the Guild throughout most of Evening Star. Nothing too big had come through as of late. There had been no progress on that strange symbol on the Goldenglow Note or the Honningbrew one. I was almost beginning to lose faith in our contacts. Delvin and Vex kept me busy doing all sorts of jobs, though—Bedlam, Numbers, Shill, you name it.

And speaking of Vex and Delvin, it was during the beginning of Evening Star that the latter came to me, seemingly embarrassed. "Hey, Tiberia," Delvin said as I methodically hacked and slashed at a training dummy. "Can I ask you something?"

I paused, and sheathed my swords. "Sure," I said, leaning against the wall. "What do you need?"

"Do you know if… well, if Vex…" He was flushing crimson. "…Never mind."  
I cocked an eyebrow. "Do I know if Vex… what? If she'd take you seriously as far as romance is concerned? Sure, why not."

"_I wasn't going to say that!" _Delvin exclaimed, his face giving him away.

"Sure you weren't," I smirked. "And you want my advice? Just go for it_, _Delvin! Good gods! The whole Guild sees the way you look at her—we aren't blind, you know—and she isn't otherwise entertained, so it's the perfect time to strike. What are you waiting for?"

"A sign that she won't chop my head off if I ask," Delvin muttered.

"So long _as _you ask," I said pointedly, "I don't think you'll have much of an issue."

So, that was how Vex and Delvin got together. I thought they were a pretty strange couple at first, but I got used to the idea as life wore on. Brynjolf found it less strange than I did, but given the fact that Delvin was one of his best friends within the Guild, it probably came more as relief than anything else. Unrequited love gets so old.

Speaking of Brynjolf, there was one afternoon where he and I sat at the Bee and Barb in civilian garb, just drinking and breaking bread, when a stupid Courier nearly got me caught.

It had begun like most nights at Keerava's inn, the two of us just drinking and sharing stories. At that moment, we were talking about what the Guild usually did for the New Life Festival at the end of the month. "…So basically, everyone brings hot food and a case of booze to the Flagon," Brynjolf said, "and we dance and drink 'til everything's gone." He half shrugged, half smiled. "Even Thieves need a day off."

"Sounds like my kind of party," I laughed, punctuating the sentence with a swig from my tankard. "I take it the Black-Briars turn up their noble noses at such a vulgar holiday?"

He caught my sarcasm with a smirk. "Ingun and Sibbi used to show up sometimes when we were all younger, but Hemming and Maven have always kept their distance."

My eyebrow rose despite itself. "How much younger is 'younger?'"

Brynjolf laughed. "Since my first days with the Guild. Back when I was just a lad."

Now he had me _really _curious. "How long have you been in the Guild, Bryn?"

Brynjolf's countenance darkened. "Since I was a boy, really. I lived around it—my parents were damn good thieves—but my brother and I couldn't join until we were old enough to 'know what we were doing…'" He half laughed at that. "As Mercer put it."

"A family of thieves, eh?" I noted.

He shrugged. "In a way, I suppose. My older brother was the one that wanted in the Guild, though—I just had nowhere else to go, once our parents took the trip to Sovngarde."

"I'm sorry," I said automatically, but with meaning behind the words.

"Thanks," he said, offhandedly, "but it was a long time ago, lass. They mostly ran under Gallus."

"Gallus? Who's Gallus?"

Brynjolf appraised me over the rim of his tankard, as though debating something in his mind. He does this a lot, I've discovered. "He was the one in charge of the Guild before Mercer. Legend has it, he was murdered by his lass."

Before I could reply, the doors to the Bee and Barb were flung open, and Keerava and a rather aggressive snow flurry were ushered inside. "Tiberia! Brynjolf!" She called when she saw us, coming over to our table. "Have you seen Talen-Jei anywhere? It's important!"

She was positively glowing. "No, we haven't," Brynjolf answered. "Apologies."

"What's so important, Keerava?" I asked. "You have big news; it's written all over your face."

Her grin was ear-hole to ear-hole. "We're expecting hatchlings! The Healer just told me."

My eyes were wide. "Are you serious?" She nodded. "That's wonderful!"

"Congratulations," Brynjolf offered, and I could tell he was feeling distinctly out of place.

Keerava was beaming as she disappeared again to go find her husband, and Brynjolf turned to me with an unreadable expression on his face. All he said was, "Baby. Argonians. In Riften."

I shook my head. "Shadows preserve us."

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"Shadows… preserve us? It's a Daedric blessing. Akin to 'gods save us...'"

That didn't cure his confusion, it seemed. "That's what she always used to say…"

"She?" I asked.

"Karliah," he said, as though I were supposed to know the name.

And once again, I was prevented from answering by that damnable door. This time, however, it was a Courier who tracked in snow. He glanced about the room, clearly looking for someone. He then made a beeline for our table, and fear sank like a lodestone in my gut. "Are you Ice-Veins?" He asked bluntly.

"Aye," I said cautiously, setting my tankard down. "Need something?"

"I have a letter and a package for you," he said, rummaging about his knapsack for a moment before presenting the paper to me, along with an elongated, brown-papered parcel. "It's from a stocky, older gentleman in Windhelm, if memory serves. Happy New Life!"

"Same to you," I said as he left. He had to have been talking about Galmar—no way would Ulfric be stupid enough to have this traced back to him.

"Ice-Veins?" Brynjolf asked with a hastily concealed smirk, mildly curious as always.

I shrugged and forced myself to laugh. "That's what my Uncle calls me. 'The ice and snow of Skyrim runs in your veins, Tiberia. How were you born in _Morrowind?'"_ My impression of Ulfric was uncanny, Jorleif often told me.

Brynjolf's smirk came out of hiding. "A political way of telling you you're a cold-hearted bitch?"

"Pretty much," I said with an honest laugh, unfolding the letter as though it were going to explode in my hands. I glanced to the name at the bottom, and my suspicions were confirmed. This was from Ulfric, all right. "Aye, it is my Uncle."

_Morwyn,_

_Your lack of letters as of late has me, admittedly, worried for your safety and more than a bit concerned. Are you not safe enough to write? Is that Brynjolf fellow onto your ruse? Or Tonilia, the Redguard woman? Or worse, Mercer Frey himself? Now that's a name all of Skyrim knows—the infamous leader of the Thieves Guild. If they are, just say the word, and a full unit of Stormcloak soldiers will be in Riften before the week is out—with myself at the head. _

_The War Effort goes well, despite the loss of our Dovahkiin. We eagerly await your safe return to Windhelm, for your arrival marks the beginning of the assault on Solitude. I believe our ranks will be ready within the month to, at the very least, march on Whiterun. I hope to see you at your rightful place by then—on the frontlines, alongside myself, Galmar, and Calder. Your housecarl says hello, by the way, and that he prays for your safe return. (You know, Jorleif and I think he rather fancies you—and you could do a lot worse than a good Nord like Calder.)_

_In the interest of your safety, how long do you figure you'll be in Riften? Knowing you, you'll want out of that town as fast as possible. And I only ask in the interest of keeping your absence a secret; much longer, and the men will start to question where my general's gone. We'll have to come up with a better cover story. _

_As for your question—yes, the Dunmer of Windhelm live in the Gray Quarter. But did you ever think they're there so that I can protect them from the Rolff Stone-Fists of the world? Not every Nord is so open-minded as myself._

_Talos guide and keep you,_

_Ulfric_

_P.S.—Happy New Life! You'll find a gift from myself, Galmar, Jorleif, and Wuunferth enclosed. _

"You never mentioned you had an Uncle," Brynjolf jokingly scolded as I folded up the letter and stuck it in my pocket with a mental note to first write a succinct reply then throw it in the fire.

"It never came up in conversation," I said semi-sheepishly, my heart still beating wildly from that narrow escape. Had the Courier been any stupider, called me Morwyn… Hell, I didn't even want to think about it. Instead I appraised the parcel. "Not sure if I want to open this…"

"Of course you do," Brynjolf scoffed. "You're always so bloody curious."

"This is true," I admitted with a laugh as I slid a dagger under the string and cut it. The paper fell away to reveal an enchanted Dwarven bow—not cheap, I knew, but my buddies in Windhelmknew I never used bows. "Oh." I could feel my face fall at Ulfric's callousness. He was like every other politician—throwing money at things, instead of truly looking at them.

Brynjolf cocked an eyebrow. "What's the matter?"

I shook my head, coming up with a quick cover story. "My Uncle means well, but he's getting on in years. Confuses me with my sisters." I tapped the bow in my lap. "My oldest sister Neva is the archer." That much was true.

Brynjolf's eyes widened in mock shock. "There are _more _of you?"

I stuck my tongue out at him. "I'm the only one of the sisters in Skyrim, calm down." I appraised the bow again. "I'll see if Cynric or Niruin wants this. They'll get better use out of it than I will."

We left our gold on the table and disappeared into the Ratway.

-)

The best job I think I ever pulled happened later that week. And I don't mean that by means of gold—personally, I think this was my favorite because of the involved parties. Tonilia came out of hiding for a bit of fun, and Mercer sent me along to make sure she didn't get herself killed doing something stupid. "It's mostly for Vekel," Mercer told me quietly over the desk the morning we left. "The man's beside himself with worry, but every man knows arguing with a woman who's made up her mind is just folly."

So she and I were on a Heist job to Solitude, stealing a Copper and Moonstone Circlet from the Fletcher's house. (I'm still not sure why a Fletcher had that, but whatever.) The carriage ride across Skyrim offered plenty of opportunity to share stories and mead, which we did. By the time he dropped us off in Solitude, I think the driver was glad to be rid of us.

I was itching to be a thorn in the Empire's side, now matter how slight the offense would be. And Tonilia? She just missed larceny. The thrill, the adrenaline, the pride of a job well done. "Are we clear on the plan?" she asked me as we rounded the steps up to the Fletcher's shop. It was getting close to eight o'clock—right when most stores were closing.

"Crystal," I said with a grin.

She pushed open the door to the Castle Fletcher's saying, "…Archery is obviously the way to go, Little Elf, and I'm done arguing such a stupid point with you!"

"Don't call me 'Little Elf,'" I hissed. "There is one man in Tamriel who can get away with calling me that, and clearly you are not him. And I've killed scores of dragons without a bloody bow!"

"Can I help you ladies with anything?" the Redguard man behind the counter called.

"Yes, sorry," Tonilia said sheepishly, fully coming in front of the counter now. "I came in here to purchase a few things. My sister, here." She nudged me with an elbow, and I shoved back. "Just doesn't understand the finer points of archery."

I snorted. "Something needs to have 'points' to have 'finer points,' my friend."

Tonilia rolled her eyes and leaned against the counter in such a way that accentuated her fit, lithe form, as well as a few other assets. I watched the shopkeeper's eyes follow her change of position and knew she had him caught. "So, care to do some bartering?"

"Of course," the merchant said smoothly, and I walked away from the two Redguards, pacing the store as though bored.

I waited another moment or so before slipping into the living quarters of the place. I tiptoed up the steps and found the circlet quickly enough—the thing was sitting in plain sight._ Well that was no fun._ But as I turned, I saw something sitting on the side table: a strange stone that seemed to give off its own light, the luster was so bright. It was geometrically a diamond, but a rich pink color that advertised it wasn't technically that particular stone. Nestled in a gold plated box, it seemed to wink at me through the twilight. I grinned and realized that I'd found what to get Brynjolf for New Life. (I'd been feeling bad about that as the month progressed. There were a few people I needed to find things for: Brynjolf, Brand-Shei, Keerava, and Tonilia.)

I materialized in the main room a moment or so later, and Tonilia still had the shopkeeper enthralled. I made a show of walking loudly and they both snapped to attention. The merchant seemed to forget I had even been there, and Tonilia was looking relieved. "I'll just take the glass ones, then, and be off." She gave her sincerest smile.

The shopkeeper bundled some glass arrows up for her with a hearty, "Do come back! Always a pleasure to meet another Redguard—particularly one so good with a bow."

The night was pitch black by the time we escaped Solitude and found a carriage to take us back to Riften. We were both hyped up from the successful job, but refrained from talking about it openly in front of the driver. We spoke in code, in "Wasn't that awesome!"s and "Did you see his face?"s. But as the moons rose, the lull of being on the road nearly had me asleep. So naturally, that was when Tonilia asked the million-Septim question: "So Tiberia, tell me—is there something going on between you and Brynjolf I should know about?"

My eyes snapped open, and I was now fully awake. She sounded like a jokingly scolding older sister who was genuinely curious, but I was far too paranoid to take anything at face value anymore. "Depends on why you want to know," I said, half-jokingly, half-seriously.

She smiled softly. "Because I look after my Guild siblings."

I sighed, planting my feet firmly on the floor of the carriage, my elbows on my knees, and my head in my hands. "I don't know," I said honestly. "Sometimes I think yes, sometimes no. Sometimes I don't want to know."

"You'd best watch yourself, Tiberia," Tonilia said, and it wasn't a threat, but a warning. "Brynjolf's confusing at the best of times."

I paused, my head coming out of my hands as my head cocked to the side to appraise her that much better. "It was Bryn, wasn't it?" I asked quietly, thinking back to the conversation we'd had when I first donned the armor of the Guild. "The one who burned you?"

That silenced her for a solid minute. "Yes," she said, so quietly I almost lost it amongst the creaking of the wagon and the clopping of hooves. "Brynjolf and I… well, we were together for a while. But we were younger then, stupider." She sighed, but when she picked up her head to look at me she had the fire in her eyes. "But my mistakes are not yours. Just be honest with him, Tiberia. The Guild's already falling apart; we don't need him trying to run the place with a broken heart." She paused. "I'm not sure even Brynjolf is tough enough for that."

I thought of Vilkas, and the mistakes he'd made as Harbinger that I still heard Aela gripe about good-naturedly from time to time. Most of those had been made right after we…

"Oh Azura, preserve me," I whispered. I didn't need the metaphorical blood of another organization on my hands.


	13. For Scars, Sisters, and Stories Part 1

**Hey all you readers and lurkers (and reviewers. I love you guys) :) So this chapter was getting ridiculously long, so I've chopped it into parts. The following is part one:**

**-)**

The Twenty-Fifth of Evening Star dawned bitter and cold, but the sun was shining and even the unlucky thieves of the Riften Guild were in good spirits. Perhaps they were just anticipating the impromptu party they'd throw later, or maybe it was just the general atmosphere of the New Life Festival. We all pretty much escaped the Flagon, making preparations for our end of the bargain—hot food and some alcohol.

My first stop of the day? The Bee and Barb.

I padded softly into the main room, not wanting to alert Keerava, who was busily wiping down the counter. I had already asked to use the kitchen earlier, and she hadn't minded, so long as I stuck around long enough to chat with her. And of course I would; the woman was like the mother I wish I had. Instead I got the one who sold me to the Thalmor as soon as I started bleeding.

"Keerava?" I called softly, fishing a brown-paper-wrapped parcel out of my knapsack. "Are you…?"

"Tiberia!" She seemed genuinely happy to see me, and that cut through me like a knife. She couldn't abide this whole Thieves Guild business, but the Guild was becoming a second family to me, in the same vein as the Companions. There was just no way to make everyone happy, when it came to my life. "Happy New Life!"

"Happy New Life," I smiled, handing her the parcel. "I made this for you."

Her brow furrowed in delighted puzzlement. "Little Elf, you didn't have to get me anything… And I have nothing for you."

"I give gifts because the recipient deserves them, not because I expect anything in return," I replied swiftly. "And don't call me Little Elf."

Her face softened, just a tad, and she unsheathed the dagger at her belt to cut through the string. The paper fell away to reveal the blanket I'd painstakingly woven the night before. I'd been sure to use muted, Argonian colors in the yarn—especially amethyst. Tonilia had poked fun at me as I wove, but I just played the 'Hey, I'm an Elf!' card and she eventually got bored. "You made this?" The Argonian seemed to be in shock.

I nodded. "In my family, it's tradition for every newborn to receive a blanket woven by one of the women in the family. I figured you could use it to line the nest."

Her face broke into a real smile. "Divines bless you, Tiberia."

I bowed my head and swallowed my pride. "And you as well, Keerava."

I spent most of that morning preparing the dish I was bringing to the Flagon. It was an old favorite of mine as a child, something my mother would make on lazy Sundas afternoons—deep fried gourd. She would slice it thin, coat it in flower, and set it sizzling into a pan layered with butter. I couldn't tell you why I'd always loved this old, elven tradition, but I did. Of course, it _is_ deep-fried; what's not to like?

I set the first batch onto a wooden plate just as Brand-Shei wandered into the tavern. _Perfect. He's right on time. _"There you are!" I called, commandeering a table. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

With a smile, my single Dunmeri friend claimed the chair opposite mine. "You were pretty vague when you invited me," he faux-scolded. "Now I'm just curious."

I pushed the wooden plate closer to him. "Recognize these?"

"You made fried gourd?" He seemed surprised that I cooked than anything else, but happily so. "I haven't had these since I was last in Morrowind!"

"New Life is the one day I year I actually can stand being in a kitchen," I quipped. "The rest of the year, I'm on the Battlefield."

"I think armor suits you better than an apron," he joked, and we dug in.

Once Brand-Shei left, I fried up the rest of the plants I had, then disappeared down into the Flagon by means of the Ratway. Who would bother a wanderer on the day of the New Life Festival? Even the lowlifes in the Guild had more class than that. It was mid-afternoon by the time I finally got into the Ragged Flagon, and I discovered the party was just getting started. Vekel waved me over the bar, and I set down the bottles of Honningbrew Reserve I'd saved from titular job, as well as the wooden plate laden with deep-fried gourd-y goodness.

I disappeared into the Cistern to change into my Guild armor, and was just buckling my boots when Brynjolf appeared out of seemingly nowhere. You'd think living with a bunch of thieves would make me used to that. You would also be wrong. He greeted me with a hug and a "Happy New Life!" which I promptly returned, and then we both said in unwitting unison, "I have something for you, by the way."

We were both surprised at that. "You didn't have to get me anything," I said, offhandedly.

Brynjolf shot me an oh-come-now look. "Sure I did. But we're even, so…"

I laughed, and dug around my trunk for a moment for the last parcel I'd wrapped the night before. "So I found this on one of my jobs, and it sort of spoke to me. So I figured that would go double for a master thief like you."

"Flatterer," Brynjolf accused with a grin, slicing through the string with the Orcish dagger from his belt. The strange pink stone I'd found at the Castle Fletchers was nestled in its box, winking through the semidarkness at the both of us, and Brynjolf broke out into a smile. "You know me well, Little Elf."

"Okay, _you're _not allowed to call me that either," I said, beginning to get annoyed at the epithet. "There is one man in Tamriel who can call me that, and you are not him. And he only gets away with it because he's the size of three of me and could probably rip me in half with his bare hands if he felt like it." Thankfully, Farkas wasn't that violent on a day-to-day basis, especially now that he'd given up the Beast Blood.

"Wise decision!" Brynjolf laughed. "And do you know what this is, lass?" I shook my head, so he continued. "This is a Stone of Barenziah. There are twenty-four in all. Legend has it, some thief somewhere tried to cover his tracks by prying them off the Dunmeri Queen Barenziah's crown. My brother found one when I was a lad; been trying to find all twenty-four ever since."

I paused to marvel at my success. And here, I'd thought the thing was just fascinating. "So how many do you have?"

"Six, now." Brynjolf smiled, and said, "So your gift sort of needs an explanation…"

"Oh gods," I said jokingly.

Brynjolf rolled his eyes. "So I was down at the Apothecary's the other day, getting medicine for Cynric…" The Breton had been sick last week with this nasty cough no one wanted to get. Mercer ordered him on meds _ASAP._ "…and I overheard Ingun talking about some breakthrough with Elgrim. Being the naturally curious thief that I am, I stopped to listen, and that's where it gets interesting. Apparently, Ingun has found a way to suppress dreams. So I figured maybe it could help with your nightmares…"

My eyes widened. "How in Oblivion…?"

"I don't know, lass," Brynjolf said with a shrug. "That's Ingun, for you. So I asked her if she could make you a batch, and she said she'd try, but given that you're an elf things could get dicey. She needs you there to figure out measurements and things. So drop by Elgrim's the next time Ingun's in; she'll fix you right up."

I was shocked at this random act of kindness. Being a chronic insomniac, Brynjolf was often awake when I awoke in the middle of the night, startled. He was one of two people who knew the true extent my nightmares—everyone else either brushed them off as simple bad dreams, or ignored them. But Brynjolf knew better; Vilkas knew better. "Thank you, Bryn," I said unsteadily, for once unsure of what to say. "Truly."

He smiled wanly, and put a hand to the side of my face. "I just want to see you finally get a good night's sleep." Then his smile reached his eyes. "Now come on; they're probably looking for us in the Flagon."

I glanced about the Cistern, and suddenly realized it was empty but for us. "Probably," I agreed, and the two of us disappeared into the Flagon (Bryn locked the Stone of Barenziah securely into his own trunk before, though).

"Look who finally decided to show up," Delvin harassed good-naturedly as we joined the rest of the Guild, giving both Brynjolf and me a hearty shove. "Somebody get these two tankards!" He called.

Tonilia was grinning in a very un-Tonilia way as she pressed a tankard of mead into my hands and Brynjolf's. She slipped back over to Vekel a moment later, but not before flashing a wink my way. "Now that everyone's here," Vex called with a purposefully dirty look our way, "let's get started."

"Get started on what?" I asked as I took a seat at the bar, sitting so that my back rested on the smooth wood, while the rest of me faced outwards, towards my Guild family.

"Oh that's right, you're new," Thrynn said as though he'd just now remembered. "Alright, someone explain it to Tiberia; I'm gonna go find a helmet."

It was Rune who took pity on me. "It's our usual drinking game," he said, taking the seat to my right for the moment. "Scar or Story. What happens is, we go around the Guild in a circle of sorts, and on your turn, you can show us a scar and explain how you got it, or a draw a story out of the helmet and tell that. We write those down before the game goes, and it could be anything—first time you stole something, first time arrested, last time you did something incredibly stupid while drunk, first time you bedded a woman…" He paused. "Well, man in your case. But just life stories like that. Or, if you like, you can pass, but you have to chug whatever's left in your tankard. If you can't, the Guild dares you to do something, which you then _must _do."

I nodded. "Sounds easy enough." I'd have to be careful around this game and booze, but it was New Life; I wasn't too worried. Rune got back up and went to find food after that.

Thrynn came back with a helmet and strips of paper. There were a few moments of scribbling entries onto them, then everything was folded and stuck in the Iron Helmet the ex-bandit had dug up. "That should do it," he said, glancing. "Who's first?"

"I'll go," Vex volunteered after a few moments' silence.

"Scar or Story?" Delvin, who was seated on her left, asked.

"Story," she said, and Thrynn passed her the helmet. She withdrew a slip of paper, and with a grin announced, "First time you stole something."

I heard a hearty, scorn-less laugh on my right, and realized that Brynjolf had materialized there without my noticing, yet again. _Gods, _I would have to pay more attention to my surroundings down here. _Anyone _could sneak up on me. I was getting too complacent. The semidarkness reminded me too much of Jorrvaskr.

"I grew up in Cyrodiil, in the Imperial City," Vex said, leaning against a stack of crates and swirling the drink in her hand. "My family… we weren't poor, per se, but we weren't rich, either. So there was one day, and I must have been nine, or maybe ten, I was in the Arboretum—the garden with the statues of the Nine Divines—just relaxing, maybe reading a book; I don't remember. And the Emperor's son walks by with his usual bodyguards, but they kept their distance, letting the boy wander. And he trips, near me, and spills the content of all his pockets.

"Being a 'good, honest citizen of the Empire…'" Vex put air quotes around this, amid general laughter. "…I went to help him gather his things. He's all embarrassed that some commoner had to help, and I'm trying to hide my laughter. He thanks me, and the Penitus Oculatus whisks him away. But what he didn't realize was, I kept one of the gemstones he had in his pocket. Just a little Ruby; he'd never miss it. And I realized then that I rather like the feeling of larceny, so here I am, twenty years later." She laughed, took a swig from her tankard, then turned to Delvin. "Scar or Story?"

"Scar," he said, and pointed to his nose. "Ever wondered why I sound like this?" His broken nose accent was so very pronounced, now that he was getting wasted. "It's simple, really. I had my nose broken three times in the same night."

"How the hell does that even happen?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them. Mead does that to me.

But Delvin just laughed. "Back in High Rock, I used to run with another gang of Thieves. Don't ask me the name; we never had one. But there was one night we were stealing this statuette out of a nobleman's home, and even though our contact _told us specifically _thatthe place was empty…" The air of an old bitterness unfurled under his words, and the Guild laughed. "…It wasn't.

"Instead of making off free and clear with the statue, we're running for our lives through town in the dead of night. The first time my nose was broken that night was when we were still in the Nobleman's house. I got into a fight with one of his mercenaries, and he hit me in the face. _Crunch! _That was the end of that." Delvin winced at the memory. "The second time, we were running for the edge of town, and one of the man's blasted dogs got my leg. I fell hard, face first into the wall around his lands." The entirety of the Thieves Guild winced at that.

Even Thrynn. "And the third?" he asked gingerly.

Delvin shrugged. "We're back in our hideout, and the _entire gang _is telling me to go see a healer. And I was like, 'Nah, I'm fine guys. Really, I—' And that's when I walked into a doorframe."

Even Vex was howling with laughter by this point. "So when I finally _did_ go see a healer," Delvin continued, "he told me he'd have to break it again to fix it—I guess that's _four _times in one night—but apparently, I screwed it up so bad that I now permanently sound like this." He turned to Vekel, who was on his left and said, "Scar or Story?"

And so it went through the whole Guild. Some stories were cringe worthy, others had us all howling with laughter. Some scars were fresh, others older than some of the owner's Guild siblings. As the night wore on, I was beginning to see why the Guild did this only once a year. Sometimes it was visibly painful for the storyteller to relive his or her experience, and sometimes he or she told it easily, openly. But since the whole lot of us are so bloody secretive, a drinking game is pretty much the only way anything even close to this would work. And you know, a little liquid courage never hurt anyone.

"Story," Brynjolf said in response to Cynric's question. He withdrew a slip of paper from the helmet and grinned. "First job with the Guild." This was instantly greeted with laughter from some of the older members of the Guild.

"By the Nine, this was great," Niruin laughed.

"The Nine?" I jokingly scolded.

"Only the Dunmer are crazy enough to worship Daedra," he shot back, amidst general laughter (some of which even came from me).

Brynjolf was laughing himself as he began. "My first Guild job…" He sounded almost wistful. "I couldn't have been much older than thirteen or fourteen… Delvin, how old was I?"

"About fourteen, aye," the old Breton replied. I realized then that his and Brynjolf's friendship went further back then just Brynjolf's time in the Guild. Call me mad and send me to Sheogorath, but it seemed like old Delvin had _raised _the red-headed Nord sitting next to me.

"There was a musical going on at the Bard's College, a new one for the Burning of King Olaf that year. It was some one-act about Queen Barenziah, but the thing that made it interesting was, rumor had it they were using the actual crown of Barenziah and didn't know it. So of _course _the Guild was curious." Some murmuring of assent at that. "So Mercer…" Brynjolf raised his glass towards the cantankerous Guildmaster sitting in the corner nursing a bottle of mead. His fifth so far, given that he'd passed every time his turn came up. "…pays off a few people, and sends my brother Raynor and I to masquerade as part of cast."

"Gods rest his soul," Delvin said solemnly, raising his tankard high. "Raynor was a good lad."

"Aye!" agreed the rest of the Guild firmly as their raised their own glasses high, but Brynjolf most of all.

"So things are going well, we fit into the cast just fine," Brynjolf continued after a moment, "but then the scene where they used the crown came up. I had the part of setting it on the Queen's head, and as soon as I picked it up, I knew it was fake." He shook his head. "All that coin, completely wasted. Wouldn't be the first time either. And that's when I knew the Guild was having a run of bad luck."

"Can you even sing?" Tonilia interrupted.

Brynjolf shot her a look. "Yes."

"Prove it," Niruin scoffed, folding his arms across his chest.

"Seriously?" Brynjolf was looking less-than-pleased by this turn of events. He glanced from face to face, looking for some backup, but found none. "Oh, _fine." _He began, a capella:

"_Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart._

_I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes_

_With a Voice wielding power, of the ancient Nord Art,_

_Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes,_

_It's an end to the evil, of all Skyrim's foes,_

_Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes,_

_For the Darkness has passed, and the legend yet grows,_

_You'll know, you'll know, the Dragonborn's come."_

He wasn't a bad singer, not by a long shot. He had a pleasant baritone that leaned more towards bass, and who doesn't love an accent? But what pissed me off was the song. Lying about being Dovahkiin was never something I'd been comfortable with. Never would be comfortable with.

Mercifully, that song is short, so upon finishing Brynjolf merely turned to me and said, "Scar or Story?"

"Story," I said, and reached into the helmet.


	14. For Scars, Sisters, and Stories Part 2

**Whoa. I was totally not**__**expecting such a fervent reaction from all of you towards that last chapter. You guys rock :) So here is part dos:**

**-)**

I stared down at the paper I'd drawn in disbelief. "Are you shitting me?" I asked no one in particular.

"Why, what did you get?" Vex asked from across the circle.

"First kiss," I answered, and the whole Guild started cracking up. "Who even wrote this?"

Brynjolf shot me a good-natured look over the rim of his tankard. "That's not part of the game, lass."

I sighed, and evaluated the contents of my own tankard. Too much to chug in one go, that was for sure. _"Damn," _I muttered, then looked up. "I have all these great war stories, and this is what I get?" I let out an overdramatic sigh. "Hell, Nocturnal must _hate _me. Alright, so a clarification: first kiss, or first kiss _that mattered, _because for me, they're rather different."

"First one that mattered, duh," Tonilia said instantly from somewhere near Vekel, her face completely deadpan.

I had to laugh at that. "His name's Vilkas," I began, "and he's a Companion in Whiterun."

There was a general chorus of "OH!" throughout my Guildsiblings. "Don't set the bar too high there or anything, do ya Tiberia?" Thrynn joked.

"Not really, Thrynn." My face broke out into a fiendish grin. "See, I'm a Companion, too."

Another chorus of "OH!" though this one was more shocked than the first. "Are you really?" Brynjolf asked, his eyes wide in disbelief.

"Damn straight," I told him, then turned to face the room. "And that goes for all of you!"

Vex was looking at me with entirely new eyes. "No wonder you took care of all those mercenaries at Goldenglow without a problem."

"Aye, I had wondered about that," Mercer said from his vantage point. It was one of the few times he'd spoken up all night. "Thieves don't generally favor all-out brawls. Particularly ones as skinny as Tiberia."

I shrugged and folded my arms across my armor. I've always been rather self-conscious about how small I am; it's just _not _intimidating when a Dunmer the size of your little sister comes at you with a greatsword. "They say my oldest sister Neva was born with a crown on her head and a bow in her hand, the middle sister Avalon was born with a spatula in one hand and poison in the other, and I was born brandishing a sword and spitting fire," I answered in a way that for me, was quiet.

Even Mercer seemed wary at that announcement. "Remind me never to piss off _your_ family," Vipir said with an eyebrow in his hairline.

"That goes double for me," Niruin added, absentmindedly fingering his pointed ears.

"Anyway," I said, shifting uncomfortably in my seat and trying to get back to the story I was supposed to be telling, "so Vilkas and I had been sent out on a typical quest. Go clear some bandits out of a cave, they're wreaking havoc and the Jarl's pissed." I shrugged. "So we get there, we kill most of the men, no problem. They're wearing studded armor and trying to kill us with _iron axes_, for the love of the Daedra!" I rolled my eyes.

"Companion fodder, as my clan used to say," Thrynn said with a disbelieving shake of his head.

"Mmm." I nodded to my ex-bandit of a Guildbrother. "But then we get to the end of the caverns, and there are these three _enormous _guys there with these _giant freakin' warhammers! _Elven, even, as though to add insult to my injury!" Some laughter at the irony in that, particularly from Niruin. "It took the better part of the afternoon to finally kill all three of them. Now, Vilkas could've taken them out in ten minutes if he'd been alone—the man is the size of a mammoth, I _swear_—but he had to watch my back, because those three bandits weren't stupid. They realized that a few hits from those nasty hammers they carried, and I'd be as good as done. So…"

"One of them got you, didn't he?" Cynric interrupted.

"Yeah, knocked the wind out of me," I told him. "Sent me flying across the room. Vilkas had my back though; he impaled the guy by way of a steel greatsword two seconds later."

"Now that's a Companion!" Vekel called with a laugh.

"So he comes over, picks me up off the ground, and makes sure I'm still, you know, _breathing _and whatnot," I continue, "and once that's established, he slapped me and was like, 'Never scare me like that again!'" My impression of Vilkas had taken many drunken bouts in Whiterun to perfect. "And then he kissed me. Scared the shit out of himself when he realized what he just did, though."

More laughter, then Tonilia asked, "So then what did he do?"

"Kiss me again, duh," I replied pseudo-mockingly, and in the same breath turned to Sapphire and added, "Scar or story?"

Sapphire was howling with laughter, so much so that she passed her turn (and since she had only a few sips left in her mug, she was lucky). She turned to Mercer and managed to gasp out, "Scar or story?"

He paused a moment as through deliberating something in his mind, then said, "Scar." He unlatched the leather straps from about his cuirass and pulled the armor over his head, leaving him standing there shirtless. For a man getting on in years, he was rather fit, I couldn't help but note, but that wasn't what my attention was drawn to a moment later.

Mercer turned and gestured to his back, highlighting a jagged scar approximately a few inches higher than his heart. "When I went to Snow Veil Sanctum with Gallus and Karliah, I had no idea what to expect," he said quietly, turning back around to face us. "But it was certainly not the Dunmeri bitch attacking the both of us."

I bristled with indignation for my kinswoman even though I didn't even know her, but Brynjolf had a steadying hand on my arm. "Easy, Tiberia," he murmured, a low warning. "You didn't know that one."

"She got Gallus first," Mercer said, with a vicious bite to his words. "Stabbed him right through the heart with those blasted glass daggers of hers. Fitting, given what they were, no? And you all know Karliah; if she had a weapon, there was poison on it somehow. Gallus died in seconds. And what did she do next? _Dump his body in the ruins to sleep with the Draugr!" _I could feel the fury and fire coming off the Guildmaster in droves.

"She came after me next, but knew going blade to blade with me was futile. So what did she do? Run away, and shoot arrows at me. _Arrows!"_ Mercer shook his head, disgusted. "And those damn things were poisoned too. I was paralyzed and freezing to death in the snow when by some _miracle _a mage from the College happened to be stopping by on his way back to said college. He healed me, sent me back to Riften. You all know the rest." He pulled his armor back on over his head, and collapsed back into his chair, exhausted. He muttered, "Scar or story?" in Rune's general direction.

By the time the circle got around to my end again, we were all good and drunk. "Scar," Brynjolf chose this time when asked the ubiquitous question. He unlaced one of his bracers, and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a short white line just above the soft part of his wrist. "This is what happens when you stupidly try to catch a dagger Vex throws at you," he said, and Vex burst out laughing.

"By the Nine, boy!" Vekel exclaimed. "I figured you had more sense than that."

"In my defense," Brynjolf said, holding both arms up in a 'stop' gesture, "I just saw her chuck something at me; I didn't have time to see what it was. Thankfully I missed the catch, or this hand…" He shook the offending appendage attached to the scarred arm. "…would probably be useless."

"And what did we learn that day, Brynjolf?" Vex asked in tone of a condescending governess.

"What did _I _learn?" Brynjolf exclaimed, sounding personally affronted. "What did _you _learn, lass?" He shook his head as Vex just laughed.

"You learned not to piss me off," Vex told him through her laughter.

Brynjolf just swore at her, and turned to me. "Scar or story?"

There was no way in Oblivion I was going to stick my hand in the story helmet again, and risk pulling out something worse than I already had. There had been a few cringe worthy stories already, and quite frankly, I didn't want to talk about my past anymore. "Scar," I said, and slid off the barstool as I unlatched the straps around my chest to wriggle out of the cuirass.

The joking wolf whistles and crude comments gave way to shocked gasps and petitions to various deities when the room laid eyes on the scar I was showing off. A large half-moon had been permanently etched into my abdomen, both over my stomach and my back in perfect tandem. It was a series of little puncture holes that had scarred over, leaving white splotches behind. "This, my friends, is what happens when a dragon bites you," I said quietly.

The room was completely silent, but for the steady _drip-drip _of water leaking from the ceiling. I knew I was drunk right then, because I felt no shame standing in front of the entire Guild in just breeches, boots, and a breastband. (The mortification hit me later, once I was sober.) "How did that not snap you in half?" Sapphire asked, breaking the silence that had settled uneasily over the room.

"As it bit down, I stabbed it in the eye," I answered. "Sword went through its skull, and out the other side."

"Whoa now, elf," Mercer called. "Start from the beginning of _that _story."

I smiled wanly. "I was on my way from Windhelm to Whiterun, when I ran into this huge, hulking black beast." A lie, I'd met Alduin in Sovngarde. "It shouted down at me, 'Mortal! Taste of my Thu'um and weep!'"

"And you gave it the patented Tiberia 'bitch, please' look, am I right?" Vipir interrupted, shooting the offending look at me as demonstration.

I had to laugh at that. "That is scary accurate, Vipir." My smile dropped as I remembered more of the fight. "And of course I did. And then it attacked, spitting fire and fury. This dragon—I feel like it was a male—circled overhead for a while, and I shot some spells at him, but he landed eventually, and I cut his wings to ribbons fast as I could.

"Now grounded, he had to use his breath, tail, and claws to attack. I avoided them for a while, dancing about like an idiot and slashing at him when I got the chance. But I grew tired, and I couldn't get away from him fast enough. His jaws clamped down on me, and as he began to throw me into the air, I stabbed him through one huge, black eye with my sword, and the force of my attack was so strong it slammed through the dragon's skull and all the way to the other side. It howled with rage and dropped me, and I slammed painfully into the ground when I landed. The beast then died with a great shudder, but it was a good while before I could stand again. When I finally came around, I pulled my sword out of its head, and used its bones to make a rather vengeful set of armor. But that was stolen from me the first time I took it off." I sighed and shrugged. "Such is my life."

"So what is this then, lass?" Brynjolf asked quietly from somewhere behind me. His uninvited fingers traced the four parallel, arrow-straight, diagonal lines—claw marks—across the upper part of my back in between my shoulder blades, trailing fire as they went.

"Not from the dragon," I said, and swiftly ended the conversation there. I wriggled back into my cuirass and buckled the straps back down again. "Scar or story?" I asked Sapphire as I hopped back up onto the barstool.

"Not sure how to follow that up…" she mumbled, and the game continued until the wee hours of the morning.


	15. Thunderstruck

**Hey all you readers and lurkers, here's another one :) Hope you enjoy, and as always, thanks to all ye reviewers :)**

**-)**

Drunken nightmares suck. They are even worse than normal ones, at least in my experience. And the one I had that New Life was legendary.

_I stood on the plains surrounding Whiterun, facing a legion of Thalmor with nothing but a hunting knife and a few haphazard spells. They hacked and slashed and tore at me, but I felt no pain until I had to stare down a set of deep brown eyes that I swore I'd claw out the next time I faced their owner._

_ "You lie, Morwyn," Cyrano told me calmly, balancing a sword precariously on his fingertips. He seemed almost… bored._

_ "And you're a murderer," I growled. "We all have our hang ups."_

_ "Why couldn't you have been more like your sister Neva?" he complained. "_She _knew her place, at least. And she_ _is so beautiful..."_

_ "My place is on the Battlefield," I retorted sharply, charging up a fireball spell._

_ "No no no," Cyrano said condescendingly, waggling a finger at me and extinguishing my fireball with the other hand. "No more magic for you, Dark Elf, until you can use it properly."_

_ "YOL TOOR SHUL!" I shouted, but the words rang on deaf ears, and no fire accompanied them._

_ "Foolish Nord!" he shouted at me. "Their legends are false; don't you know that?"_

_ I folded my arms across my chest. "If the legends lie, what am I?" _

_ "The Daughter of a Lie, Dovahkiin," he spat back. "A child of both Talos and Azura, devout of Sheogorath without so much as trying. Your whole life is a lie."_

_ "Yeah, I'm mad; so what?" I challenged. "It's not like you're much better."_

_ "You INSOLENT…" his insult dropped as the scene changed._

_ Now I was running through the forests near Falkreath, pounding out an easy rhythm on all fours in my old, familiar werewolf form. I hadn't been a wolf in years; running so freely was exhilarating. My pack—the Circle—joined me, and for a moment, I was whisked back to a time when life hadn't been so damn confusing. But then, a hunting horn sounded, blasting our sensitive wolf ears with a deluge of sound, and the forest seemed to come alive as it began to burn._

_ Farkas was the first to fall away. His great, hulking bestial form was suddenly impaled by his own sword and he collapsed, clearly dead. Next to fall away was Aela, who stopped to stand guard over Skjor's body and howl at the moon in rage and despair. I still don't think she ever quite got over Skjor's death. Though I suppose that some things in life you aren't meant to get over, you only just learn to deal with them._

_ The last to fall away was Vilkas. Back when we were both wolves (and even now), I was the only one who could keep up with him, in everything from running like this, to swordplay, to mere conversations. But he too fell away, peppered with so many arrows his coat was turning red. His pelt went up in smoke as silver eyes bored into me, saying very clearly, "Run."_

_ Funny, isnt't that what I'd been doing all my life? _

_ "TIBERIA!"_

I was shocked out of my disorienting dreams by a feminine voice screaming my name. I snatched the dagger out from under my pillow before I'd even opened my eyes. My breathing was heavy, my eyes wild, and my braid was falling out as I stared down a familiar Imperial face.

"Finally," Vex half-muttered, half-told me. "I was beginning to think you'd never wake up." She eyed the dagger warily. "You can put that down, you know. I'm not going to stab you."

"Sorry," I said, shoving the steel under my pillow again. "Old habits die hard."

Vex smirked, and for once, there was no coldness in her eyes. "You alright, Ty? I heard you thrashing about in your sleep and muttering something."

"Since when do _I _have a nickname?" I asked, undoing my braid and beginning to fix my hair.

"Since just now, when I realized your name is a bit of a mouthful." She shook her head. "And you're avoiding the question."

"I know," I said, now sitting sideways in my bed, feet firmly planted on the ground, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. "And it was just a nightmare, Vex. Nothing to get worked up about." Then it hit me like a warhammer to the gut: "Did you say I was _muttering_ things?" _Oh no; oh no… _

"Aye." Vex nodded. "But it wasn't in this tongue."

"Probably Daedric, then," I said, feeling the weight ease off my gut. "It's the only other language I know." _Other than the Dragons'._

She shrugged. "If you say so." Then she extended a hand to me. "Come on; let's get you some food. You look like you could use a distraction. And did you even _eat_ earlier?"

She pulled me to my feet and must have noticed my confused expression. "You've been in the Guild long enough now that I can call you Sister without lying." It was the closet Vex would ever come to admitting she cared about someone, other than Delvin. "Expect to be treated like one."

She half-dragged, half-led me back to the Ragged Flagon. We sat down on the edge of the shallow pool, our feet in the cool water and tearing into loaves of bread. "So now tell me," Vex said, absentmindedly tearing at the bread in her hands, "what has _you _terrified? I've seen you cut down men twice your size; you've apparently killed a dragon, and you're a _Companion_. What in the world could scare you?"

Dream-Cyrano's words came flooding back to me: "A daughter of Talos and Azura, a devout of Sheogorath without even trying…" I murmured, just now divining meaning from them.

Vex's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure I follow you."

I turned to face her now. "What if I'm not what I think I am? What if I'm… _human_, Vex?"

"You look like an elf to me," she assured me. "You're freaking _blue!"_

_ "Vex," _I said urgently, needing someone's input on this other than my own, "look at my _face. _Tell me, does that look elven to you?"

Her eyes narrowed in the dim lighting of the Flagon, but I saw her jaw drop slightly when she realized what I mean. "No… You've got the Nord jaw." She tapped the side of my face, the jawline. "And elves usually have higher cheekbones. And your eyes… well, they're bright crimson like Dark Elves always have, but they're not quite so cat-eyed. More…"

"…Rounded off and squared away," I finished with her. "Human." I added, for emphasis.

"You've got some Nord in you somewhere," Vex summarized. "Must be. You don't look like an Imperial, and you're built all wrong for a Breton. Explains a few things, 'ey?"

"I'm part _human…" _I said, unable to fully wrap my mind around this. I'd sort of known this all my life (after all, my face hadn't exactly changed), but I'd never truly admitted this to myself. "By the Daedra, how can it be?"

"I'm assuming you know how reproduction works, so I'll skip that bit," Vex quipped, elbowing me in the side.

I shot her a look. "My mother is my mother, I know that for fact," I said, trying to piece these things together in my mind. "My sisters were there when she birthed me; they're both at least a century older than me."

"So that means the Dunmeri man who raised you wasn't your father," Vex said softly, at least for her. "I'm sorry, Tiberia. This can't be easy for you. But being human isn't so bad. I've done it my whole life, you know." Her weak smile told me she was joking.

I snorted, and had just opened my mouth to say something when we heard the door from the Cistern bang shut and two voices speaking softly yet urgently. Two voices that we knew very well.

Vex and I shared a wide-eyed look and she mouthed, "Brynjolf and Delvin!" before jerking me upright by the scruff of my neck. We took cover in one of the alcoves that dotted the Flagon across the room from the bar, where there had once been merchants in this city-under-a-city. She put a finger to her lips, and then cupped her ear—Guildspeak for 'shut up and listen.'

"…I just don't understand it, Delvin." Brynjolf's thick brogue came wafting back to us.

"Some things in life you're not meant to understand, Bryn." Delvin's broken nose accent came filtering back, next. "And trust me when I say this, some things you don't want to."

They were quiet, then, and the silence stayed for so long that Vex and I nearly gave ourselves away, figuring they'd both fallen asleep. But just before we unconcealed ourselves, Delvin spoke up: "So is there a real reason your half-drunk ass dragged me out of bed, or can I go back to it?"

"I just need help, Del." Brynjolf sounded lost. "Trust me, if Raynor were still here, I'd be asking him."

Delvin's short, barking laugh cut through the darkness. "If Raynor were still here Brynjolf, you'd have competition!"

"I don't think he'd do that to his little brother…"

"It wouldn't be him, it'd be her."

_Her? _Vex and I shared a look. So Brynjolf was having _that _kind of issue. Explained why he was talking to Delvin about it. And why he would have asked his older brother. It just made me wonder who the (un)lucky girl was.

"You know, Bryn," Delvin began, "sooner or later, you should just talk to her about it."

"I know. And that's the problem. I never know how she'll react."

Delvin's snort echoed throughout the room. "Women are like that."

"Aye, they are." Brynjolf was almost laughing, now. "This one, especially."

"Making life difficult on yourself, I see. You always had a talent for that." Delvin chuckled at some old, private joke. Then he appeared to have a lightning moment. "Why don't you ask Tiberia what she thinks? That elf will tell you straight."

I'll never forget what Brynjolf said next: "Del, _she's _the one."

I couldn't breathe.


	16. Scoundrel's Folly

**Hey all you readers and lurkers (and reviewers! Much love :) ) here is the much-delayed next chapter. Sorry about that, btw. Seeing the Dark Knight Rises at midnight, then getting up early the next morning, then having your boyfriend spill Pepsi all over your laptop tends to do that.**

**And yes, this is where I start deviating from the questline as it is in-game. Be warned.**

**-)**

A few days later (after everyone had slept off their hangovers), all hell broke loose once again but _damn, _did it feel good to be back in the saddle.

Brand-Shei and I were sitting in the Bee and Barb, commiserating the fact that neither of us had any family left to mourn for the Old Life Festival a few days prior. All these Nords go to their Halls of the Dead and their ancestral Burial Cairns, but as Dunmeri refugees living in Skyrim, we had nowhere to go to pay the proper respects to our ancestors. No bones, no Waiting Doors, no Cities of the Dead for us to attend to, to venerate. We contemplated hiking up to Azura's Shrine near Winterhold, but with the winter snows being what they were that year, it was just too dangerous.

"…My mother would be ashamed of me," I said, running my fingers over the hilt of Mehrunes' Razor in my belt. "She'd say I'm ignoring my ancestors."

"But you're not ignoringthem," Brand-Shei countered. "These barbaric Nords just have no way for you to properly worship, is all. And at least you _knew_ your Dunmeri family."

I paused, thinking back to my childhood, to Neva pulling my hair clean out, and Avalon putting Cliff Racer dung in my food. "I'm not entirely sure Nocturnal favored me, in that respect."

Brand-Shei laughed, and took another swig from the bottle of mead by his hand. "Surely your sisters couldn't have been that bad."

I shot him a look. "You clearly don't know Neva and Avalon."

Suddenly, the door to the tavern was flung open and a very flustered-looking Brynjolf was letting in half the snow in Skyrim. "Keerava!" he called to the Argonian. "Have you seen… Tiberia! There you are." He was beside our table in an instant. "Our friends have been looking all over for you, lass!"

He was speaking in Guild code, but there was an undeniable excitement in his voice. "Our friends should know where to find me by now," I half-laughed, half-reminded, raising my tankard in a sarcastic toast.

"Aye, a tavern. You're worse than Delvin!" I had to laugh at that. "Look, Freyr's been asking after you." Freyr—Mercer's codename in public. "Best not keep that man waiting."

"Right you are," I said, pushing back from the table. "I'll talk to you later, alright Brand-Shei?"

Brynjolf blinked in recoil, as though he'd just then realized the Dunmer was even there. "Sorry, Brand-Shei, it's business…"

"Understandable," my sole Dunmeri friend said amicably. "Business is business."

Brynjolf glanced at my half-drunk tankard. "You know lass, there's a special plane of Oblivion for people who waste good mead."

I rolled my eyes, threw back my head and drained the rest of my cup, then slammed the tankard back down on the table in a rather impressive display of tolerance. "Let's go, Brynjolf. I'm not a fan of pissing offFreyr."

As we set off for the secret entrance to the Cistern, Brynjolf commented, "By the Nine, you drink like a _Nord_, Tiberia."

His words, though spoken and meant in jest, cut deep, all the way to my breakdown the other night. Only Vex knew my not-so-secret for the moment. And Brynjolf hadn't taken Delvin up on his advice, either. Of course, the two of them had spent the entirety of the Old Life Festival at the Thieves Guild Cairn due north of Riften. Mourning the dead tends to put a damper on happy occasions.

"I think you mean Nords drink like me," I shot back, and Brynjolf's laugh filled the Mausoleum.

We were before Mercer's desk a few moments later, and the Breton was tapping his foot impatiently, staring me down with eyes dark as coal, bright as fire. "There you are, elf," he growled. "I was beginning to think you weren't running with us anymore."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I fired back in all honestly. "What is it you need, Mercer?"

He smirked. "Our adversary from Honningbrew and Goldenglow is good… but we're better."

"About damn time!" I snorted, in tandem with Brynjolf.

Mercer did us the huge honor of ignoring that. "It seems our adversary is trying to tear apart the Guild from the inside. Trying to turn Maven Black-Briar against us. How very _clever." _He snorted, the word derisive. "But clever or not, our adversary will pay… dearly." The final word rang into silence like a deathly drumbeat.

I folded my arms across my chest. "How?"

"They've made a mistake," he smirked. "The parchment mentioned a 'Gajul-Lei' was involved in the dealings. And, according to our dwindling sources, that's an old alias used by our East Empire contact, Gulum-Ei. Our inside man for the East Empire Shipping Company in Solitude. Slimy bastard…"

"Gulum-Ei? That Argonian couldn't find his tail with both hands!" Brynjolf snorted. "How in Oblivion is he in on this?"

Mercer shrugged. "I bet he acted as a go-between for the sale of Goldenglow Estate. And therefore, he can point a finger at the buyer. So Tiberia, seeing as you're the only one in this Guild with any bit of luck anymore, I'm sending you. Get out there, shake him down, and see what he knows. But for the love of whichever gods you believe in—_don't kill him!"_

"Where's the fun in that?" I harrumphed.

Mercer cocked an eyebrow. "The Companions seem to have gotten to you, girl." Then he turned to the red-headed Nord next to me. "Brynjolf, fill her in if she's got questions."

Brynjolf nodded. "As always, Mercer."

I hummed in response. "I'll leave right away."

As I began to pad over to my bed and trunk, I heard Mercer growl, mostly to himself, "Aringoth was a fool to think he could get away with this."

"So," I asked Brynjolf, "who's Gulum-Ei?"

"There are thieves, and then there is Gulum-Ei," he growled. "No honor, no code, no loyalty. Gives the rest of us bad name. This all sounds pretty fishy to me, lass. He could scam a beggar out of his last Septim, but a mastermind? Never." He let out an exasperated breath. "He's stubborn as hell, though. Your work's been cut out for you. The only way to get his attention is to buy him off."

I snorted as I dug around my trunk, thumping my Guild armor onto my bed, along with my swords, a few lockpicks, potions, Septims, and some other essentials. Brynjolf did me the gentlemanly honor of turning his back as I changed clothes, and _Sheogorath's balls,_ did it feel good to be in armor again. "So what happens if he's too scared even for that?" I asked, alerting him I was dressed again.

Brynjolf turned back to face me, arms folded across his chest as he surveyed my haphazard packing. "Tail him. See what he's up to. If I know Gulum-Ei half as well as I should by now, he's stepped in _something_ he can't scrape off his boot."

"He's going to pay for selling out the Guild," I growled as I buckled my swords onto either hip, and slid Mehrunes' Razor into my boot. "If not in blood, then in gold."

"Aye, now you're thinking with your pockets," Brynjolf chuckled. "He's supposed to pay the Guild a cut of what he's lifting out of the warehouse, but it's been shrinking as of late. He says pickings are slim. I know he's lying."

I nodded, fitting my magicka circlet under my hair, then pulling the hood of my armor over my head. "I'll find out." I gave myself the once-over to make sure I wasn't forgetting anything, and started off for the secret exit into the graveyard, but I didn't get too far before Brynjolf added:

"Oh, and Tiberia?" I turned back to him. "When you get back from Solitude, how's about I buy you a pint and you tell me how it went, eh?"

I smiled. "Sure, Bryn. Sounds like what we always do."

I couldn't be sure in the dim lighting of the Cistern, but I'm fairly certain his face flushed. "Ah, not quite what I meant."

"Hmm? Oh." My face fell into shock. "Is… is this a Nord courting a Dunmer?"

Brynjolf held up two fingers a half an inch a part. "Little bit."

I smiled. "Then the answer's the same. See you when I get back."

"Aye." I could practically sense the relief coming off him in droves. "And Mercer wanted me to remind you." His eyes grew dark. "All eyes on you, lass. Don't disappoint us."

-)

Solitude, Solitude, it all went wrong in Solitude.

I found him in the Winking Skeever as instructed, and Gulum-Ei proved to be just as slimy and unforthcoming as forewarned. No, he didn't know anything about Goldenglow. Not at _all. _But, one case of Firebrand Wine lifted from the Blue Palace later, his tune changed. Oh_ Goldenglow! _And here, he'd thought I'd said something else. He then bribed _me _not to kill him, and said, "As far as Goldenglow Estate is concerned, I was approached by a woman who asked me to broker something big. Gave me a bag of gold, told me to buy off Aringoth. I walked out of the meeting with a copy of the deed to the estate, and that was it."

"There has got to be a reason a woman would go through so much trouble," I said skeptically, folding my arms across my armor.

"She seemed furious, and most of it directed at your Mercer Frey," the Argonian admitted. "But that's all I know. No names; our business doesn't deal in names, yes?"

"You're lying," I growled, my eyes narrowing to cat-like slits.

"I never promised I'd have all the answers," Gulum-Ei said, rising from his seat. "And since our transaction is done, I'll be on my way." He made a move to get around me, out of his alcove in the Winking Skeever.

"If you've sold out the Guild, you're dead," I growled after him.

I could practically hear his heartbeat speed up as he exited the tavern. I sighed, counted to four, and followed him out the door. The following chase proved to be slow going (to put things diplomatically). I was practically getting bored by the time he finally reached his destination—the East Empire Warehouse. He went in, I counted to four, then picked the lock while looking over my shoulder for overzealous guards. The door swung closed behind me with an air of finality, and I stepped into the dimly lit cavernous room beyond.

The warehouse was built _into _the bay, so saltwater rushed up to built-in docks, while crates lined random islands, creating walls and barriers. I heard footsteps in front of me, and knew it had to be Gulum-Ei. They were walking too briskly to be a lazy guardsman or ordinary dockworker. They were the footsteps of a man scared, a cornered rat. I tailed him, dispatching guards as I went in short, rough fights. Some dodged arrows here, some clashing swords there, then a stab in the back and the stopping of hearts. The tools of my trade, if you will.

I followed him into a grotto of sorts, killing off more Nords in studded armor and stealing whatever struck my fancy from the crates lining the walls. This was proving to be _way _too easy. I should have known it was a trap, but my earlier successes made me careless. After taking care of a particularly nasty Orc with a two-handed warhammer, I carefully padded down a rickety, wooden ramp to an open area of solid ground was surrounded by more crates lining the walls, and a few cages lined the far wall.

And standing in the middle of the open room was Gulum-Ei and a battalion of Thalmor soldiers. "She's the one," the Argonian stuttered to the Altmer standing on his left, pointing one scaly finger at me. "The Thieves Guild operative."

The High Elven woman cocked her head, giving me a full once-over. She was the traditional Altmeri golden-bronze, red-eyed and blonde-haired. She was thin, and tall almost to the point of being gangly, as is common with High Elves. I squinted, for I recognized this woman—and then realization tackled me like Farkas himself. This was Elenwen, a high-ranking Thalmor in charge of the bloody faction in Skyrim. "Excellent work, Gulum-Ei," she purred, handing him a coin purse. "Thirty pieces of silver, as promised." She began to walk towards me, without drawing the dagger in her belt or calling upon magicka.

"Come no closer, High Elf," I ordered, drawing my swords and crouching into a defense potion.

She stopped, but only to appraise me further. "Do mine eyes deceive me, or does one of the Morwyn Sisters stand before me? Judging by your… ah, _interesting _face, I'd guess the youngest one, Tiberia."

It was then that I launched myself at the woman. Remember the hell breaking loose that I mentioned earlier? It did the breaking right…

…about…

…now.


	17. Dragonborn, by Her Honor is Sworn

**Hey all you readers, reviewers, and lurkers :) I was on a writing kick last night, so here's a new one for all y'all. And if I may make a friendly suggestion, don't spill things all over your keyboard. Sticky keys make for interesting typing…**

**-)**

Elenwen reacted more quickly that I'd anticipated. She threw up a ward, which I then promptly slammed into, and laughed derisively. "Never the bright one, were you Tiberia? I do believe that was your sister Avalon."

"Go die," I growled, shooting sparks up under her ward. "Thalmor bitch."

She howled when the electricity hit, and ordered her soldier lackeys to all-out attack. I laughed, and readied my swords for a Companions-style brawl. It felt weird to be doing this without the Wolf Twins, particularly Farkas, who loves a good brawl. Of course, his version of brawling didn't involve a life-or-death battle with a bunch of Thalmor. But that's why I have more fun.

I slashed the throat of one soldier just as his buddies fell upon me. I ducked under a whirling glass blade, and thrust my own sword up and through this new one's sternum, breaking the rib cage in the process. He collapsed, and I rolled past him, through the legs of another of the unsuspecting Altmer, then jumped to my feet once out of range. I flew at them with dual swords now, hacking and slashing and keeping perfect time with these trained fencers. They never know how to react when they fight someone who actually knows _how _to fight, and it always proves to be endlessly entertaining for me.

I twirled and spun, knowing all the moves to this deadly dance already; I'd learned them years ago. These Altmer, they think they know everything. They never know what to do with themselves when the world comes crashing around their obscenely pointy ears. They don't have a plan for that, don't have a backup plan for that. And I live for those moments. That is why killing High Elves is so much _fun. _Aela and I used to have competitions to see who could kill more Thalmor when they came to Whiterun. She won, but I never cared. Any High Elf-killer is a saint in my book.

I saw a soldier charging up a fireball spell, and hastily slammed one of my swords into its sheath and cast a ward. The spell slammed into the ward, forcibly knocking me backwards and slamming me into one of the shelves the crates were stacked on. The whole contraption came crashing down, and something big and heavy (my bet is a shield) slammed into my head, sparking stars into my vision. In the momentary lull in my counterattack, two Thalmor grabbed me from behind, slamming my elbows together behind me and forcing me to my knees.

A pair of Thalmor boots suddenly stood before me, and I glanced up their length until I was looking Elenwen in the eyes. "Come quietly and we won't need to hurt you," she said to me.

"Sovngarde. first!" I screeched between clenched teeth, then made a split-second decision: "_YOL TOOR SHUL!"_

Fire engulfed half of the High Elf standing before me, and the two behind me instantly dropped my arms to aid their burning leader. "No you fools, _her!" _Elenwen shrieked._ "_Get _Tiberia!"_

I was running back the way I'd come, leading the Thalmor on a merry chase through the winding, twisting tunnels and passageways of the East Empire Warehouse. But I quickly discovered this wasn't the way I'd come in, and I soon had my back against the wall and several very anger Altmer in front of me. "_IISS SLEN NUS!" _

I bolted past the now-frozen forms of a half-dozen or so Thalmor, but twice that many were bottlenecking the only bridge out of here. As I turned in a slow circle, swords up and in the defense position, I realized I was surrounded.

"A valiant effort," Elenwen applauded, and I couldn't help but feel she was being sarcastic. "But, my dear, so very futile."

Something hit me square on in the back of the head, and then all the lights went out.

-)

When I finally came to, I realized several things. One, I was chained to a wall in a dirty basement that smelled like blood and dying things in a Solitude-style building. Two, I was in a _cell, _chained to the wall in this horrid place. Three, they'd taken my armor, my weapons, my Amulet of Talos, and left me wearing rags that protected little more than my modesty. Four, my head hurt like I'd been trying to keep up with Vilkas drink-for-drink, then had proceeded to be trampled by a heard of roaming mammoths. Five, I'd shouted multiple times in the Warehouse. Gulum-Ei knew who I was. _Elenwen_ knew who I was.

A door opened and shut on the floor above me, and I heard two pairs of footsteps thud down the stairs_. _The door to my cell was unlocked, and these two sets of footsteps padded inside my cell. I raised my head to get a decent look at my visitors. Two elves, one High, one Dark. The High Elf was clearly Elenwen, but the Dark Elf… she looked eerily familiar. She wore Thieves Guild armor, a Glass and Elven sword on either hip, Mehrunes' Razor in her boot, and had the hood pulled low over her eyes. Her cat-like, red eyes glittered under the hood-the same color as mine—and then I knew.

The hood was thrown back, exposing a Dunmeri face similar to mine but far too pretty to _be_ me. Her hair was so brown it was almost black, pulled back in the Dunmeri style but braided and tied off like a Nord woman's. Not her usual style, but she wasn't trying to be herself, now was she? "Good evening, Tiberia," she said in a smooth, condescending voice. "Little sister."

"Neva," I growled, clenching my hands into fists involuntarily. "I see you've borrowed my clothes again." I smirked. "Have you gained _more _weight since the last time I saw you? You're practically bursting out of my leathers."

Her brow furrowed and her mouth set into a thin-lipped line. "You're a waif. It isn't my fault your bloody armor doesn't fit normal-sized people."

Elenwen was surveying the scene with obvious distaste. Made me figure she was an only child. "Yes, well, Tiberia, since we can't have you going back to your precious little Guild, and we _certainly _can't have them looking for you, Neva here will be borrowing your life for a moment." She smiled, a truly evil, Thalmor smile. "Hope you don't mind."

"They'll smell you, _rat_, from a mile away," I snarled, sounding twelve times braver than I felt. "A thief can always sniff out a rat."

"Oh, dear," Neva tsked. "You don't seem to realize—we know everything about you. From your only kinsman friend, Brand-Shei, to your Guildsister Tonilia, to Mercer Frey himself sending you on this mission, there is nothing about your cowardly life the Thalmor don't know." Her smile was catlike—or should I just say catty? "And I'm sure your friend, the redhead… what's his name… Brynjolf? Aye, I'm sure he won't notice the difference, anyway."

I knew what she was getting at. "You so much as touch a hair on his head, and I'll claw your eyes out," I snarled. "Sister or not."

"Oh! I do seem to have struck a nerve!" Neva's cold, derisive laugh echoed off the high ceiling. "My _apologies_, baby sister. I didn't realize you got so attached to _humans." _She said the word like highborn ladies said 'work.'

"Neva, you'd better get going," Elenwen prodded gently. "We've wasted enough time as it is. Don't want people to start wondering."

Neva half-bowed to the Altmeri woman. "As you command, my liege. I'll be off to Riften, then." She shouldered my pack and flipped the hood up again, and it was almost like looking in a mirror.

"You can die too, Thalmor bitch!" I howled after my sister, but she just laughed as she climbed the stairs.

Elenwen was studying me with critical eyes. "Cyrano certainly has his work cut out for him."

Oh, no. Oh, no no no. "Cyrano? _Here?"_

Elenwen's smile was downright predatory. "Oh, you didn't hear? Why, he's coming all the way from the Summerset Isles to pick up his wayward bride. He should be here within the month."

"YOL…!" I began, but Elenwen forcibly shoved a dagger between my teeth and cut off the shout. It was shut up or have my tongue cut clean off. "No more of that shouting nonsense," she hissed, and for the first time I realized half her face was badly burned—too much so to even attempt to bandage, "or I'll cut out your tongue. Cyrano won't be very happy, but the man can learn to live with other methods."

I felt distinctly queasy. "I'd sooner go to Sovngarde."

Elenwen smirked. "You don't have a choice." And she left the room with a flourish of her standard-issue, Thalmor robes, swiftly locking my cell behind her. "And hasn't anyone told you?" she called down as she hiked up the stairs. "Only Nords go to Sovngarde!"

"SEE YOU IN OBLIVION, THEN!" I shouted after her.

I'm only slightly ashamed to admit I broke down and cried once I was sure I was alone.

-)

Elenwen put some sort of scrying stone in my room, and I could only watch helplessly as Neva was welcomed with open arms into the ranks of the Thieves Guild, who peppered her with questions she could answer with ease. I watched Tonilia upgrade her armor for her and chat away about Guild business, watched Brynjolf clap her on the shoulder with a smile not meant for her. A born schmoozer, my older sister. Is it any wonder I hate her?

They put me on the rack later that day, and a Thalmor soldier laid an impressive array of instruments out along a table as another one strapped me down. Elenwen strode forward, a pair of daggers in her hands. "You, my dear, have some major explaining to do," she informed me, "because by the Eight, do we have some questions that need answers."

"Do your worst," I hissed. "I'm no rat."

"Oh come now, Sister Elf," Elenwen huffed, rocking to a hip. "There's no need to protect a few Nords. They breed like rodents! Surely Skyrim won't miss a few."

"I would," I replied as evenly as I could.

"Don't disappoint us, girl." She echoed Brynjolf in those words, and my resolve just got that much more rock-steady.

"Learn to live with disappointment," I hissed. "And there are _Nine _Divines."

She dug the first dagger into the soft part of my arm, and I bit down on my lower lip to keep from crying out. "Don't make me do this, Sister Elf. You're better than them, better than the humans."

"You're an arrogant fool," I shot back as she dug another dagger into my other arm, and twisted.

"Which Companions are still werewolves?" She growled, slamming another blade into my leg, this time. Blood poured freely from my open wounds. "They'll be the first to die."

"_Sheogorath have mercy!" _I called to the Prince. After all, wasn't madness his bitter blessing?


	18. Sheogorath's Chosen

**Hey all you readers, reviewers, and lurkers :) I post this now because I'm not sure how long my laptop will be getting fixed. Hopefully, it'll be right as rain soon, and we can get back to our lives.**

-)

Days and nights bled together in that Thalmor holding cell, becoming one eternal present. Before long, I couldn't even tell you how long I'd been in that basement. Two days? A week? Three? Not yet a month, I knew, for there was no sign of Cyrano—yet. There was no natural light down in this basement, only torches and candles and the bloody glint of torturous blades.

The first night (or at least, I assumed it was night), I fought so hard against these iron shackles that my wrists and ankles were chafed raw. Humph. No getting out like that, it seemed. My attempts at magic were equally futile, for I quickly realized they were poisoning me, keeping my magicka from regenerating. I was also gagged, a thin strip of cotton between my teeth, not to keep me from talking, but to keep me from using the Thu'um. Not that there is a 'get out of binds' shout. (Maybe there ought to be...) My wounds from the previous day were open and festering, and I half hoped the rot would take me before Cyrano showed up.

Cyrano Feliciano… I hated that man. Still do. He was the High Elf my mother had managed to wrangle into marriage with me, and he seemed just about as enthusiastic about the idea as I had. Thing is though, he can't stand losing. So even though he hated me with a fiery vengeance and would rather see me hang from the gallows, he was traversing all the way across Tamriel to bring me "home." He would seem the conquering hero, and I would seem the disobedient little girl who needed disciplining. And now with my status as Dovahkiin, the Thalmor would have one more reason to stay in Skyrim. I couldn't betray my country like that. I consider Skyrim my home now, for better or for worse, and by the gods, I would die defending it.

Victory or Sovngarde, as the Wolf Twins say.

Oh, Farkas and Vilkas… how I missed those two. I don't feel right getting into fights without them. But what would they say about my life now? After all, the Companions do good, honest, righteous battle—no sneaking and hiding in the shadows. Vilkas absolutely detested sneaking (probably because he was no good at it), and Farkas was just too big to even attempt at it. Aela was an archer, but that was more because she was a Hunter than an Assassin.

And this train of thought led me to another. Vilkas and Brynjolf… you'd never find two men more different. Both had that stubborn Nord honor, stubborn Nord pride, but that was as far as it went. Brynjolf, I realized, embodied almost everything Vilkas stood against, and vice versa. I realized why I'd fallen for both of them—Vilkas appealed to the Nord in me, but Brynjolf to the Dunmer. The question was, how did Cyrano fit into this? I certainly had no love for the man, but I'd heard some soldiers talking the other day, about how I'd broken the Altmer's heart when I fled from the Summerset Isles.

All my life, I'd dismissed the notion. We'd played the world's deadliest game of chicken after I'd fled. I was hiding out in Cyrodiil, at the College of Whispers, and he'd threatened to kill my mother, now a prisoner on the Summerset Isles, if I didn't return. So being a good daughter, I called on a few mercenaries and returned to spring her loose, only to find I'd been too late. He'd apparently given a time limit, and I'd missed the deadline by an hour. Surely a man that harsh didn't even _have _a heart to break?

I squeezed my eyes shut then, warding off tears by viciously chomping down on the inside of my mouth. Tears did me no good down here; I needed to be strong, obdurate, hardheaded—like a Nord. If there is one good thing about my incarceration in the Thalmor Embassy, it is that I had plenty of time to come to terms with my Nordic ancestry. I even started to embrace it. Perhaps that was just Sheogorath blessing me after all. Perhaps I'd finally gone mad.

"You're not mad," called a voice, thickly laden with an accent that reminded me of Brynjolf's, but less melodic, and much choppier. "Not yet, anyway."

I lifted my head, only to come face to face with the strangest being I have ever met. An older man, white-haired and -bearded and leaning jauntily on a cane, stood just before me in my cell. His overcoat was half purple, half maroon, sewn together in a dignified and clearly intentional way, and his trousers were the same purple as his coat. A dagger was slung through two looping belts, and a white cravat was tied about his neck. His eyes were milky, glassed over, and that accent of his made my chest uncomfortably tight. I knew this being, all right. I'd met him before.

"Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of madness, my dear," he reminded me, dropping in to a shallow bow. "Charmed, I'm sure."

"I'm afraid I have no way of showing proper respect," I said through the gag, annunciating as clearly as I could, and gesturing to my chained hands with my head.

Sheogorath waved me off. "Lass, do you think I care? I'm not here to have my boots licked—Haskill does that just fine."

My brow furrowed. "Then, why are you here?"

"For _you, _my dear Dragonborn champion!"

Now I was successfully confused. "Why for me?"

"All these blasted questions! You're making my teeth itch, girl!" He shook his head. "Your mother wielded fear like a cleaver! Or did she wield a cleaver and make people afraid? I never get that part right…" He sounded vaguely annoyed with himself. "And your father doesn't even _need _the cleaver! All he had to do was shout at people, and they scrambled over themselves to do his bidding! A great _brute _of a man, your father. And here you are, ready to give up because a few uppity elves have decided you're not worth much more to them than a dagger rack!"

"You knew my father?" I asked, hardly believing my ears.

"My dear girl," Sheogorath said, clapping me on the shoulder and annunciating every word very clearly, "I have been watching over you since birth."

This news hit me like a warhammer. "Why me?"

"Well you see," Sheogorath said, "you remind me of the Hero of Kvatch—lovely woman, very powerful—in the sense that though I am always with you as I am with everyone, you do not fear me. You do not fear madness. And _that, _dear Dragonborn, is just not normal. You are an oddity—and I keep my eye on such things."

"You knew my father?" I asked again, still hung up on that fact.

Sheogorath laughed. "I knew him, aye! About as well as I did the talking Grapefruit from Passwall! A great bear of a man, your father. Stubborn Nord. Refusing my blessings." He harrumphed for emphasis. "Stupid Nord."

"So I _am _half Nord," I muttered, mostly to myself.

"Of course you are! What else would you be, for that blasted Akatosh fellow to borrow you as an avatar?" He shook his head. "He always turns his devout into dragons—it's hardly sporting for the rest of us! Like that Martin fellow…"

I'm never sure if I'm supposed to interrupt a Daedric Lord when he gets on a rant, and Sheogorath most of all. I rather like my intestines where they are, thank you. Soon enough, though, he'd had enough of his rant about the Septim dynasty. "…And then that Tiber fellow claimed you too. Even had you named for him! The _nerve _of some people!"

"Surely you knew I was named after Talos," I reminded him.

"You should have been Sheoth! But never mind that." He shook his head. "What was the reason I came down to this miserable little plane again…? Oh right! The Champion!" He turned to me. "You haven't seen her, have you? Dunmer, rather short, looks like a Nord…?"

"That would be me, Lord Sheogorath," I said, one eyebrow creeping dangerously close to my hairline.

"What! _Really?_ Oh, good. You've saved me the trouble of skipping rope with your entrails! Though I do rather enjoy that…" He snapped his fingers, and an Oblivion portal appeared. "Ta ta, Dragonborn! I'm sure I'll be seeing you again. Stop by next time you're in the Shivering Isles, and we'll share a strawberry torte! Ha! Such a horribly wonderful place to visit!"

Alright, I lied before. _Now_ I was confused. "Lord Sheogorath, is there a reason you came all the way down to Nirn?"

His smile was just as mad as the rest of him. "I do believe you'll find it on your back." And he disappeared.

As if on cue, I felt something cold and solid dig into my back, as though tucked into the rope about my waist back there. What in Oblivion…? I had no way of investigating, and before I even could, exhaustion took over, and I slept.

Or had I been asleep the whole time?

Vaermina besieged me with nightmares of flashing teeth and daggers, bloodied werewolves, and golden-bronze tormenters. And when I was roughly shaken awake, I realized the nightmares spread into reality. Elenwen was unlocking my shackles, and my feet hit the floor unsteadily. She unceremoniously shoved me forward, forcing me to walk to the rack of my own power. I was worried; surely she'd see whatever was digging into my back?

But she didn't seem to. Instead, she strapped me down and readied a dagger, asking me the same question she always did: "Why are you protecting the Thieves Guild?"

I never gave her an answer. I never so much as screamed.


	19. Jailbreak

**Chapter 19, because I was on a writing kick last night and the computer goes in the shop in less than an hour. Oh, and many thanks to my wonderful readers and reviewers :) And you lurkers. You know who you are..**

**-)**

"…Cyrano's in Skyrim, laying over in Whiterun at the moment," one of my Thalmor guardians said to his on-duty buddy. "Should be here in a day or two."

"Least we'll finally be rid of _her." _The other one glanced my way, and I flipped the both of them my middle fingers. I still had _that _much dignity.

"Classy, isn't she?" the first one quipped.

"Oblivion take you," I called to the both of them.

Azura only knows how long I was actually in that cell, but for me, it seemed to be a lifetime. About a month had passed, I had to guess, if Cyrano was finally in Skyrim. All these years I spent running from that bloody Altmer, and here he was, about to win. It made me _sick. _Made me _furious. _If only I were still a werewolf…

Sheogorath's blessing had been a dagger, though not just any old iron dagger—Mehrunes' Razor. It was almost comical how often I was handed and re-handed the Daedric artifact. I discovered this fact the other day when they'd let me out for a bathroom break. I'd scrabbled at my back a moment, and felt the familiar hilt and ran a cursory finger down the flat of the blade. It was Mehrunes' Razor, all right. Had to be. Made me wonder how he'd gotten it. I hoped Neva had been bloodied in the process.

Neva… that _whore_. Elenwen hadn't put the scrying stone back in my room after that first time, so I had no way of checking up on her progress. It made me sick to my stomach to think that my Guildsiblings couldn't tell the difference between two very different Dunmer. Brynjolf and Tonilia especially. Didn't they hear the arrogance in her voice? Didn't they see she had no swagger in her step? Didn't they know me at all?

And Ulfric, didn't he realize I was being incarcerated by his most hated enemy? Surely word had gotten out by now, that the Thalmor had the Dovahkiin? He wouldn't hesitate to send his Stormcloaks to rescue Galmar, Jorleif, or any of his other generals. Why not the Dunmeri one? Was he really so racist?

I actually shook my head at that one. Of course he was!

I was half falling asleep when I heard the door to the upstairs swing open. _Joy, Elenwen's here for my daily dosage of pain. _At least, I think it was daily. I lost track, down here in this lightless, soulless basement. Gods, I truly despised the woman with every ounce of my being, and prayed that some Daedra would take pity on me and smite her. Or one of the Nine Divines could. I'm really not picky.

But as I listened harder, I realized that there was more than one set of footsteps. All of them quiet, stealthy, and moving in such a manner that made it impossible to discern just how many people there actually were. And as the sounds of combat rang through the room, I knew it wasn't Elenwen.

I was so very tired. I didn't even care who this was, hacking and slashing through the Thalmor Embassy like I had so many years ago, back when Alduin was still threatening to kill half the population of Skyrim. Back before I'd been the most powerful Dov in Tamriel. Before I'd joined the Stormcloaks and gotten myself tangled up in this mess. Distantly, I heard the sound of the door to my cell opening, the lock having been so skillfully picked, it opened even more quickly than a key would have allowed.

I glanced up, my vision blurry, and I could have sworn I'd finally lost it. Why else would a familiar, red-headed Nord be hefting a Daedric war axe over his head, aimed clearly at mine? I braced for impact as it made its arc, but realized shortly after it wasn't aimed for my head at all. The axe lodged itself in the wall just above my head, slicing cleanly through the chain the bound me to the wall on that side. I realized then he was dual wielding, for he slammed the axe in the opposite hand into the wall on my other side, slicing through those chains as well.

I fell to my feet as the chains snapped, standing unsteadily and unbalanced on my own two feet. How long had it been since I'd actually walked? I wasn't sure. He slammed an axe into the ground now, breaking the chains that held my ankles in place. "Brynjolf, hurry it up," snapped yet another familiar voice.

I glanced up to discover its owner, and found two more familiar faces, one large Breton man and one skinny Imperial woman, both armed and dangerous, and all three wore the Thieves Guild armor. "Something's wrong, Vex. She's feverish," Brynjolf called back. Then he dropped his voice, solely so I could hear, and carefully sliced through the gag between my teeth with his Orcish dagger. "Tiberia, lass, listen to me. Can you walk?"

He was trying not to embarrass me by promulgating my weakness in front of even more Guild members. But now was not the time for pride. "No," I managed to gasp out. "I…"

He wasted no time slinging me across his back and ordering, "Hold on, then. We'll get you out of here."

I wrapped my arms about his shoulders, my legs about his waist as he took off again, sliding out of the cell with the practiced ease of one accustomed to the shadows. "Tiberia," called Delvin, his familiar broken-nose accent like music to my ears, "is there a way out of here other than the door up top? I think we've got company."

"The grate over there…" I nodded weakly to the trapdoor tucked back in an alcove. "They take bodies down there sometimes… don't know if it leads anywhere you want to go."

"Time to find out!" Vex called, and with a key filched off a dead Thalmor, unlocked the trapdoor.

Before any of us could use it, however, the door to the upstairs swung open and shut again, and Thalmor began pouring in. Brynjolf hefted both war axes as Vex drew a Dwarven blade and steel dagger. "How many can you take with her on your back?" Vex called.

"Not enough," Brynjolf grunted back.

Delvin interrupted the would-be fight with three small, powdery balls pulled from his bracer. In one fluid movement, he spiked all three into the ground and the whole basement was flooded with smoke. Thalmor began coughing and swearing, calling for torches and collapsing on the ground with lifeless thuds. Delvin, meanwhile, wrenched open the trapdoor, and jumped down into the gaping maw beyond. Vex went next, and they called up for Brynjolf to lower me down first. I slid off his back, already mourning the loss of warmth, and felt myself fall into the hole in the ground. Delvin caught me, and Brynjolf soon followed, slamming the door shut over his head as he fell.

"That won't keep them long," Delvin said, about to hand me back over to Bryn when a roar shook the cavern we stood in.

All four of us thieves crept over to the edge of the ledge we stood on, and found a frost troll howling at the intrusion in its territory. Delvin set me down against the wall, and ordered his comrades to stand back. I'd forgotten about the whole Bretons and Magic thing, because he and Mercer tended not to use it. But there stood Delvin Mallory, clear as day, dualcasting a fireball spell. He called upon the magicka with ease, and blasted the troll halfway to Hammerfell upon release.

Brynjolf jumped off the ledge then with a savage Nord war cry, slamming both of his war axes into the Troll's thick skull as he landed on its back. The thing howled and collapsed with a great shudder, clearly dead before it even hit the floor. Brynjolf landed gracefully on his feet, smirking and calling to Vex and Delvin to keep moving. He yanked his axes out of the thing's skull with a sickening squelch, and Delvin lowered me down over the ledge, careful not to jostle my wounded body any more. Brynjolf caught me and slung me up onto his back again. I was beginning to wonder just how much I weighed, since both these men seemed to handle me with ease. Wasn't sure how much I approved of that. Vex was next, and with all three thieves firmly on the ground, they took off running through the twisting cavern—but not before Vex swiped a Stone of Barenziah off a skeleton under the ledge.

We broke out of the cave and into a cold, crisp Haafingar night. I glanced to the stars above as Brynjolf, Vex, and Delvin broke out into an all-out run, and discovered that the Thief was the dominant constellation that night. The Divines were watching out for us, it seemed. The three thieves on Nirn were bantering back and forth, figuring out the fastest way to… well, anywhere. They hadn't gotten very far, when I heard a feminine voice call out my name—"TIBERIA!"—inside my head.

"Meridia…" I whispered, craning my head for the source of the voice. I knew she had a shrine up here, but I didn't remember how close it was to the Embassy.

"What was that, lass?" Brynjolf murmured over his shoulder to me.

"Meridia… Daedra… shrine, over there." I jerked my head in the direction of the voice. "She's… calling to me."

"Best not argue with a Daedra," Delvin said sagely, already leading the three of us back in the direction the voice had come from.

"Does she know we're on a time frame?" Vex grumbled.

"Hush, Vex," Brynjolf ordered. "I'm with Delvin on this one."

Vex muttered something along the lines of 'bloody elves and their bloody daedra' as the three of them ascended the steps to Meridia's shrine. I slid off Brynjolf's back, making my way forward with measured, uneven steps. Before us stood a great statue of Meridia, the Daedric Prince's arms outstretched and holding the beacon, which I had returned years ago. I fell to my knees before the altar, hearing Meridia's voice booming inside my head. "TIBERIA MORWYN! YOUR TIME OF LYING HAS ENDED! COME CLEAN, DEAR GIRL. TELL THE TRUTH! AND YOU MAY SAVE YOURSELF YET!"

"Lady… Meridia…" she was giving me a massive headache, and I swayed uneasily, even rocked back on my haunches as I was. She showed me a vision, then. The plains surrounding Whiterun were filled with armies raging, soldiers fighting and dying, brothers pitted against brothers. Or sisters against sisters. "Forgive… me…"

I came to clutching the edge of the beacon's altar. Sweat had broken out all along my hairline and the small of my back. I reached back there, remembering, and came away with Mehrunes' Razor. "That is one powerful daedra," Delvin commented. "Didn't her doppelganger have that?"

"Neva…" I whispered, clasping the Razor closer to my heart. It seemed only the daedra cared for me now. Well, them, and the three thieves who'd risked their lives to rescue me.

I felt myself get picked up again, slung across Brynjolf's back yet again. "We need to keep moving," he called to Vex and Delvin.

"_Finally, _someone agrees!" Vex exclaimed.

They took off down the side of the mountain, but before long Delvin held up a hand calling for a pause. "Do you hear that?" he asked quietly.

The ring of a forge pounded through the night. "Aye," said Brynjolf. "Must be an army camp."

Wait, wait… Haafingar Stormcloak camp? "Which side?" I wheezed.

"Stormcloak," Vex answered after a moment. "The flags are blue. But what does that matter?"

"Ralof… my old friend… he's in charge of… the camp in Haafingar." I elbowed Bryn in the ribs, too lightly to do anything but get his attention. "He'll help."

They (wisely) took my advice, heading down the mountainside and into the camp. Upon their entrance, some soldiers called for Ralof, who materialized out of the officer's tent a moment later. "Is that… Tiberia?" Thankfully, Ulfric had filled in his commanding officers about his plans for me. "Bloody hell, what happened?"

"The Thalmor happened," Delvin said, his voice and countenance dark. "She needs clothes, healing, and we need to get back to Riften as soon as possible."

"There are horses tied up at the edge of camp. Take them," Ralof nodded, immediately on board as soon as the Thalmor were mentioned. "Svetlana!" He called to one of the soldiers standing near him. "Wake up the quartermaster, see what armor we can spare for the elf." The woman nodded, already off and scrambling to find the man. "And I'll mix a poultice for her wounds myself, and let the lady deal with her."

Vex nodded, coming forward and helping me off Brynjolf's back. He seemed loath to let me go, as though worried I'd go missing again. I tried to think of something even vaguely reassuring to say, but my frazzled, exhausted, poisoned, half-deadened brain couldn't come up with a damn thing.

Once tucked away in the officer's tent, Vex set to work cleaning and bandaging whatever she could. The poultice Ralof concocted stung when applied to wounds, but I was used to the stuff, having been treated with it multiple times over the years. Vex let out a low whistle the more of my battered and bruised body she saw. "What were they _doing _to you?" she asked quietly.

I was fading in and out of consciousness. "You don't want to know…"

One of the female soldiers appeared with a spare Stormcloak Cuirass and fur boots, and I stepped into them almost immediately. I was instantly grateful for the warmth, so much more than the rags I'd previously been dressed in. Vex led me out of the tent, throwing my rags onto the fire as she passed, and down to the edge of camp, where three horses stood saddled and ready to go.

I don't remember being helped into the saddle, and I don't remember most of the frantic and frenetic ride across Skyrim. What I do remember is Brynjolf seated behind me, his one arm around my waist to steady me, the other grasping the reins tightly, and his low voice somewhere near my ear, muttering prayers to every last one of the Nine Divines and even various daedra as I slipped in and out of consciousness.


	20. Blood Siblings

**Good news, everyone! Using our home computer doesn't make me want skip rope with something's entrails when I'm only using word! (Major brownie points if you caught both those references :) )**

**Anyway, I'm laptopless for the next few weeks, so these updates will be more sporadic. Lo siento :(**

**And as always, many thanks to you readers, lurker, and wonderful reviewers!**

**-)**

When I came to, I was in the Cistern, lying in my own bed, dressed in my underclothes. The rasp of a whetstone on a blade was accompanied by a masculine voice singing in a familiar cadence, a song from my own childhood I vaguely remembered my sister singing to me at some point:

"_Oh, I once knew a grapefruit from Passwall,_

_All sticky and orange, a cute little ball,_

_But when I picked it up, it gave me a fright:_

_This little grapefruit came to life!_

_Unsure of myself, I asked its name,_

_And it laughed as if playing a children's game,_

'_Name's Stanley!' The grapefruit said,_

'_And do you mind? You're squeezing my head!'"_

The comforting familiarity was quickly drowned out by the sheer amount of _pain _leaking from my every pore. I groaned and attempted to sit up, only to shoved back into place by a concerned (if callous) hand. "Hey now, Sister Elf, don't go tearing your stitches out! Took Mercer two hours to finally get all of them in."

Sister Elf? That had to be Niruin. I forced my eyes to open, and was immediately greeted by the sight of the Bosmer. He had a whetstone and an elven dagger resting on the table next to my bed, his bow sitting on the edge of my bed, reading to be drawn in an instant. It was the Dwarven one Ulfric had given me for New Life, now safe in the hands of a master. "Stitches…?"

Niruin nodded, his red eyes full of honest concern. "Took Vex and Ingun four hours to bandage you up. We had to keep sending Sapphire topside to get some weird alchemical ingredient Ingun needed, which I think is what took so long. Thrynn started to stitch you up when they were done, but he kept puking at the smell. Mercer's got a cast iron stomach, though; he finished the job." The concern in his eyes turned to righteous anger. "What did those Thalmor _do _to you?"

"Where is everyone?" I asked, stubbornly ignoring his orders, and propping myself up against my headboard. I felt weird talking up to someone when I didn't need to. And besides, the Cistern was empty and I was pretty confused at this point. I needed _answers, _dammit.

Niruin fiddled with his bow, uncomfortable. "You've been shrieking like a woman possessed in your sleep. And even when you were awake, you weren't _really_ awake. We didn't want to risk moving you, so Maven offered Black-Briar Manor as a temporary crash site. Most of the Guild's been there for the two weeks."

My heart sank at this news. "And who's been here?"

He ticked names off on his fingers. "Brynjolf, Mercer, Tonilia, Vekel, myself, Delvin, and Vex, mostly. Everyone else has been in and out."

Then the back half of his previous statement slammed into me. "_Two weeks?"_

Niruin shifted uneasily in his chair. "Are you sure you don't want to hear this from Brynjolf or Tonilia?" Translation: I don't know how to pull the punches when it comes to you. "He's at the Alchemist and she's just out with Vekel; they'll both be back within the hour, I'm sure."

I shook my head. "Tell me, Brother Elf. What happened?"

I knew I'd guessed right, playing the race card, when Niruin let out a long sigh, and ran his fingers through his hair. "What's the last thing you remember, Ty?"

I strained my brain, searching for memories that didn't exist. "The ride to Riften," I said finally. "I remember getting to the Haafingar Stormcloak camp, and setting off for Riften on their horses, but after that…" I made a twisting, fluttering motion with my hand. "…nothing."

"Mmm." His voice was little more than a rumble in his chest, but he continued clearly in a moment. "The horses of Skyrim… they're not built for speed. Brynjolf, Vex, and Delvin practically killed those steeds getting you here as quickly as they did. But thank the gods you got here when you did. I have no doubt, if they hadn't, you'd be dead."

The chilling thought cut through me like a knife. "What makes you say that?"

Niruin leaned forward in his seat, feet firmly planted on the ground, elbows on his knees, looking me in the eyes. "Tiberia, your body was in shock when you arrived back. You were so weak…" He shook his head. "Lost so much blood, endured so much obvious pain… You could barely _speak_, let alone move. You were delirious, muttering things about Daedra and someone named Neva… and cheese." He seemed rather confused at that. "Brynjolf had to _carry you _through the Ratway to get here, and Mercer immediately sent Vex to get Ingun Black-Briar and put the Guild on lockdown. You've only just now woken up for more than a few minutes at a time."

We were both silent for a moment, me digesting the information and Niruin watching my face, looking for outward signs of trauma. "You said Mercer stitched me up?" I asked, grasping at straws.

He nodded. "You had several gaping gashes that were oozing blood and something foul—that's what made Thrynn puke—and Ingun figured you'd been poisoned. She cleaned them out—and by the _Nine_, did you scream!—and Mercer stitched you up."

My head was fuzzy, trying to process all this. "Anything else I should know about?"

Niruin shrugged. "Delvin said you ran into a Daedric Shrine on the way out of the embassy. We did the math, and that thing…" he gestured to the table next to my bed. "…appeared on your bed at about the same time."

I glanced over and immediately realized he didn't mean the table—he meant the sword sitting on it. A beautiful blade, golden-bronze and oh-so familiar. "Dawnbreaker," I said with the appropriate amount of reverence. And here, I'd thought it was safely locked away in my wardrobe in Windhelm. "Meridia's gift to her champion."

"Ah, Meridia," Niruin said with a small smile. "Makes sense, since it appeared in a flash of light. And you had Mehrunes' Razor in your boot… how? Your doppelganger had it!"

My turn to sigh and run my fingers through my hair. Too late, Niruin warned me not to. I found multiple abrasions under my hair, and a veritable smorgasbord of bumps and bruises. I winced at the pain, but said, "Trust me, Niruin. You wouldn't believe me if I told you. _I _don't even believe it."

"More Daedra?" He asked suspiciously. At my nod, he snorted. "Should have known."

"Where is this doppelganger of mine?" I asked, glancing about the Cistern.  
"And…" I paused, unsure if I really wanted to ask this. Who am I kidding? Hell yeah, I did. "…how long was everyone fooled?"

"As far the first question is concerned, Mercer's got her locked in Riftweald Manor. She's not getting out of there until he _lets_ her out. As for the second…" Niruin sighed. "Depends on who you ask. Brynjolf caught the ruse within two minutes of that woman walking in the door, but he had no way to prove it immediately. Tonilia caught on just as quickly, but had the same problem. As for the rest of us…" He shook his head guiltily. "Tiberia, you have to understand, with her hood up, she looks just like you, and she didn't say much…"

"Of course she does," I snorted. "That's my sister, Neva. The Thalmor sent her here to… well, I don't know what. But she came to gloat before she left."

"Ah hell, that explains a lot!" Niruin looked less ashamed of himself. "Well, Brynjolf presented the case like this to Mercer: 'one, the armor doesn't fit. Two, she's mentioned _twice_ how she killed someone with a bow. Three, that voice is too high to be Tiberia's. And four, she's too damn pretty to be our Dunmer.'"

I snorted at Brynjolf's brutal honesty, even tempered through Niruin's words. "And Mercer believed him?"

"No, but Vex and Delvin did. The three of them took off for Solitude that night. Vekel tried to reason with them, but Delvin refused to repeat the Gallus incident. They were hell-bent on bringing you back, dead or alive. Brynjolf most of all." Niruin went back to fiddling with his bow. "Turns out, the three of them were right, and Mercer was wrong. The old Breton did _not _appreciate that, I can tell you."

"Hmm, didn't figure he would…" I absentmindedly began running my fingers lightly over my wounds, taking inventory of the new ones. I reached my wrists, and confusedly held one up. "Why is this bandaged like this?" It was the most bizarre thing I'd ever seen.

"Brynjolf hacked off your chains," Niruin began quietly, "but the shackles were what held the poison. The lot of us down here took turns, but we eventually picked the damned locks on all four of them. But we were too late…"

I felt my pulse quicken. "Too late for what?"

"The poison had already seeped into your wounds there." He sounded clinical, trying to distance himself as best he could. "Whatever it was the Thalmor were giving you… you've still got it."

I tried to call on my magicka, create sparks, some frost, _something, _but I came up empty handed. "Well, still no magicka."

Niruin actually seemed relieved. "Is that what it hurt? Ingun couldn't tell, but…"

"I know that, for starters," I interrupted. "Heard some of my captors talking about it. It stunts magicka regeneration, lowers resistance to magic and pain, and keeps you bleeding. _A lot."_

Niruin glanced over both his shoulders, looking for someone to take his place. "I need to get that to Ingun!"

I smiled weakly. "Go. Please."

"I can't leave you. Guild orders."

I paused, my brow furrowing. "Niruin, is there a reason you decided to stay in the Cistern? I figured you'd run with the rest of them." He and I, we weren't really friends, but we were Guildsiblings, same as anyone.

He smiled then, wanly but genuinely. "We're the only elves in this bloody Guild, Tiberia. I watch my sister's back. Besides, you think any of these humans know anything about treat an elf with potions? Ha!" He scoffed at that. "They'd kill you!"

I had to laugh at that. "Thank you, Brother Elf." I dipped my head in a shallow bow, a Bosmer show of respect.

He bowed back, something I hadn't expected. "Don't mention it, Sister Elf." Even as he spoke, the door to the Cistern swung open, ushering in hushed, worried voices and two of my favorite people in the world—a redheaded Nord and a stubborn Redguard.

They both stopped short when they caught sight of me. "Thank the Divines, she's awake," Brynjolf half-exclaimed, half-prayed as they reached my bedside.

"How are you feeling, Ty?" Tonilia asked gingerly, setting down a few potion bottles on my bedside table, next to Dawnbreaker.

I put a hand to my aching head. "Like I drank Farkas of the Companions under a table then took on a Giant or something."

"Only one?" Brynjolf teased softly. "You're slipping!"

I rolled my eyes. "A herd of them, then."

"Do Giants have herds?" Niruin asked as he slung his bow across his back.

"Who cares…?" Tonilia asked pointedly.

Niruin and Tonilia took off for Elgrim's Elixirs shortly after that, leaving Brynjolf to change some of the more bloodied bandages. We sat there in companionable silence for a while, but I had to mention, "Niruin said you were the first to figure out Neva wasn't me."

Brynjolf glanced up from his work, and put a gentle hand to my unbruised cheek. "I know you, Tiberia." was the only explanation he gave.

I supposed I would just have to be happy with that answer. (But there was no way in Oblivion I'd let him get away with that.) "By the way," I added with a smirk that felt unnatural on my face after so long without one, "I do believe you owe me a drink."

His smile was lopsided but one-hundred-percent genuine. "Oh, it's you, alright." He was laughing. "_Gods, _I missed you."


	21. The Evil That Mer Do

**Hey all you readers, reviewers, and lurkers out there in No Man's land :) Hope you enjoy :3**

**-)**

Niruin and I had a silent sort of agreement after that night, the kind only elves can make. We kept an eye on each other's backs, ready to pull out jealous daggers at any time. Nothing had outwardly changed; no, there was nothing _to _change. But knowing we weren't alone in this Guild of Humans was comforting.

Ingun finally pronounced me healthy enough to get out of bed a few days later, but ordered me not to go on any missions until she could get back down here and check on how the antidote was working. There was no need to put myself in that sort of stressful situation, she said. Combat, I argued, isn't stressful if you do it right.

I still lost the argument.

Tonilia and I were sitting in the Ragged Flagon with a pint to celebrate, tossing stories back and forth, when Mercer approached our table. This was a shock; he almost never affiliated with the rest of us. "Tiberia," he said wearily, sounding like he hadn't slept in days. "Niruin tells me you know the woman the Thalmor sent down here in your place?"

I nodded, setting my flagon down with more care then technically necessary. "Aye. She's my sister."

His eyes widened. "Oh… Bloody hell, this couldn't be easy, could it?"

"You need me to interrogate her?" I asked evenly.

Mercer's shoulders were stooped under the burden of his failure. "She won't talk to us. And when she does, it's in some gibberish language. We've yet to get any information out of the woman. I don't want to make you, but…"

I was already on my feet. "Take me to the bitch. And bring Brynjolf and Vex. Permission to wreak havoc?"

Mercer was shaking his head. "Granted. And I hope I don't live to regret it."

-)

Riftweald Manor was a typical Riften-style house, wooden and high-ceilinged. It was sparsely furnished, since Mercer spent most of his time in the Cistern, and the result was almost Spartan in its middle finger to luxury. "We've locked her in my office," Mercer informed me as he unlocked the door. "Vald has been keeping watch over her."

Vex hissed at the mention of the name, and I realized the two of them probably had a rather messy history. Brynjolf shot her a look and she quieted, but drew her dagger nonetheless. We drew closer to the makeshift prison cell, and I stopped us before the door. "Follow my lead, alright? I know my sister." The assembled thieves nodded, so I hefted my own dagger—Mehrunes' Razor—and nodded to Mercer.

We entered the room and fanned out, Mercer and Vex taking the back corners, Brynjolf standing guard by the door, and Vald running for the hills with his tail between his legs. It must've been a sight to see, these four different races dressed in identical armor and moving as one. There was a desk shoved in one corner of the room, and Neva was tied to the chair that would have sat behind it, and her hair hid her eyes. But she glanced up at the sound of the four of us, and her grin was feral. "Little sister," she greeted.

"Backstabbing bitch," I replied. I heard Vex snort from somewhere to my right. "Sucks to be the one in binds, doesn't it?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Brynjolf's eyes narrow and his lips draw back into a snarl Vilkas would have been proud of. But I kept my eyes on Neva, who merely snorted. "I suppose."

"They tell me you've been answering in Daedric," I said conversationally, checking my reflection in the flat of my dagger as though I had not a care in the world.

Neva let out a short, barking laugh at that. "And what if I am?"

The tip of my dagger was immediately mere centimeters from her throat. "Any elf worth the metal in his boots could name this blade," I said, my voice low and even.

"Mehrunes' Razor," Neva hissed, eyeing the blade warily.

"Legend has it, there's a slight percent chance that a mere cut from this dagger could kill you instantly," I continued, voicing aloud the myth for the sake of our human companions. "Care to test it?"

Neva shot me a look she'd perfected during my stint as youngest child. "You won't do it, Tiberia. You're weak."

I slashed her face in reply, just a short little scratch to get my point across. She gasped in audible shock. "It's been a long time, sister," I said in that same smooth, even voice. I sounded mad, even to my own ears. "You don't know what I'll do; not anymore."

"You're mad!" she accused.

I shrugged. "Perhaps. I _did _see Sheogorath during my incarceration by your lovely little friends. And speaking of which…" I leaned against the wall behind me, the picture of nonchalance. "…they're probably pretty pissed with our family right about now. Only difference is, I prefer them that way." I stood up straight again, lazily balancing my dagger at the tips of my fingers. "Care to explain why you're here, or should we continue our little game of roulette?"

"What I do, I do for the glory of the Aldmeri Dominion," she hissed, spittle flying into my face at the force of her words.

I rolled my eyes. "_Beautiful_, they've gotten to you, too." There was the dagger again, inches from her face. "I need an _answer, _sister. Not some Thalmor bullshit."

"What is it you say?" She pretended to contemplate this. "Oh, yes. Sovngarde first."

I snorted. "You have to be a Nord to go to Sovngarde, icebrain."

Her laugh was derisive. "Then you won't be going either."

I realized then that the Thalmor weren't telling her everything. Or much of anything, actually. "Didn't your good friend _Elenwen _tell you?" I asked, cocking my head to the side. "I'm half Nord."

Three shocked gasps went up in the room. Vex was just studying her boots. "Apparently, no one told them either," Neva spat once regaining composure, nodding at the men in the room. "So, what? Mother was a whore? Father kept a love child?"

I laughed viciously. "Apparently nobody tells _you _anything!"

She began cursing me in Daedric, and I realized that I wasn't getting anything out of her like this. I needed a different approach. Something decidedly… madder. _Lord Sheogorath, forgive me, _I prayed and then said, "Look, Neva, we all know you…"

I let the sentence hang in the air, as though the wind had been knocked out of my lungs. I forced a shiver down my own spine, from the top of my head to my toes. "Shut up, bitch," Neva growled at me in Daedric.

But I ignored her. I rolled my shoulders back and examined my arms, as though testing out new armor, then shrugged and padded over to the desk in the corner of the room. Mercer happened to be standing closet to it, and the confusion in his eyes was almost palpable as I hopped up onto the desk. I settled myself into a lotus position, my hands resting on my knees, and closed my eyes.

Silence pervaded in the room for at least a solid minute. "Um, Ty…?" Brynjolf's voice came drifting across my consciousness.

"_Ty?_" Neva scoffed. "The humans call you _Ty?" _She sounded faintly disgusted._  
"_Oh, mother would be turning in her grave if she cared for you."

That one stung, but I forced myself to stay calm. I opened one eye and said in an accent akin to Brynjolf's, but much choppier and less melodic: "Do you mind? I'm busy doing the fishstick. It's a very delicate state of mind!"

Vex, Mercer, and Brynjolf gave off disbelieving snorts or barks of laughter, but Neva actually gasped. "Alright Tiberia, very funny. Come off it." She sounded scared.

"Tiberia?" I said, still in the accent. "Who's Tiberia? You know lass, you'd best use the right names, unless you like angry immortals skipping rope with your entrails." There was a broom lying against the wall a few feet to my left, so I snapped it across my knee to make a makeshift cane. I limped over to stand in front of my sister again, and leaned on it jauntily, saying, "You may call me Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of madness." I dropped into a shallow bow. "Charmed."

The humans in the room were trying to hide their laughter, but Neva was visibly agitated. "Tiberia, this is…"

"I think I rather like this form," I said, stretching and arching my back as though getting used to a new body. "Now, then." I unsheathed Mehrunes' Razor and held it inches from Neva's throat. "Your lovely friends the Thalmor have been torturing my devout. And I hate it! I _hate it_ when people torture my devout! And you…"

"This is all a misunderstanding," she began, never taking her eyes off my dagger.

"How dare you interrupt me!" I thundered. "Only _I _can interrupt me! Like just then. Listen, lass, I'm a busy daedra with many things to do, so let's make this quick."

"Tiberia…!" she began once more, pleadingly.

"Tiberia is _gone!"_ I boomed. "Your sister as you knew her is gone; now a resident of the Shivering Isles! That reminds me, I owe her a strawberry torte." My face was inches from my sister's, mine a hard line and hers a quivering mess. "Now tell me, unless you wish for the same fate, what is the point of incarcerating the girl, hmm?"

"They're scared of her," Neva whispered, quaking in her boots at the presence of a 'daedra.' "I don't know why; they said some ancient power sleeps within her, never gave me details."

That much I knew was true; they were scared of the power of the Thu'um. Most beings with any sense of self-preservation are. "There's more than that, girl," I said, nearly forgetting the accent.

"They want to crush the Thieves Guild," she added hastily. "Them, the Dark Brotherhood, the Companions, the Stormcloaks… anything that stands a chance at fighting them."

"Like the Blades," I said. Thalmor showing up with the heads of every Blades agent within their domain tended to start wars—that incident, the Great War.

"Exactly, yes!" Neva was nodding, her eyes terrified. "They want the world, and without Tiberia, they'll get it."

"So what's this personal vendetta against your sister, eh?" I nudged her with the broken end of the 'cane,' and she just about jumped through the roof. "This is one that will move mountains. It'll mount movements! But the question is, why?"

Silence in the room for another several moments. So much so that I stole one of Brynjolf's Daedric war axes off his hip to make my point. "In case it wasn't clear, lass, I asked you a question." I hefted the axe above my head. _By the Nine, this thing is heavy! How does Bryn do it?_

She threw back her head and hissed at me, spitting sparks as was her specialty. My face flattened out. "You really shouldn't have done that."

I had to take a grand total of two steps forward with Brynjolf's war axe raised before Neva spluttered, "Because I loved him! The fool didn't know what she had, who she was dealing with! She _ran! _My idiot sister _ran _from him! She could have married into one of the most powerful families in the Aldmeri Dominion, set herself and our family up for the rest of our lives, done the dutiful, honorable thing _and she ran!"_

Neva loved Cyrano? This just kept getting better. "Well, if you're going to be so _petty_, good day, madam. I SAID GOOD DAY!" I slammed one end of the 'cane' into the floor to emphasize my point and slid over to the door, handing Brynjolf his war axe back with a, "Why thank you, mortal. I haven't had this much fun since the Oblivion Crisis! Such marvelous times! Butterflies, blood, a Fox, and a severed head! …Oh and the cheese! To die for."

"You're welcome, ah, Lord Sheogorath," Brynjolf said, watching me with an eyebrow in his hairline.

I smirked as I stood halfway in the doorframe. "Nice accent, lad." I made sure I was far enough away from the door to go unseen before summoning a Flame Atronarch with a handy scroll I'd kept up my sleeve in case Neva needed more violent prodding. This was to create the sound of an Oblivion Portal, and then I purposefully collapsed to the floor with a satisfying thunk.

I returned to the room a few moments later, leaning heavily on Brynjolf to complete the charade. "What… just happened?" I asked, putting a hand to my still-healing head.

"I do believe you were just possessed by a daedra," Vex said, trying to hide her grin. "Now I've seen it all…"

Neva was sobbing where she sat, no longer the picturesque Dunmeri maiden she claimed to be. I shot a pointed glance at my sister. "Which one?" I asked. "Surely not Molag Bal or Namira or…?"

"The Four Corners of the House of Troubles!" Neva accused between sobs. "You traitorous bitch! You worship the very daedra who sent father to his grave! First you murder our mother and now this!" She was sobbing whole-heartedly, now. "What kind of daughter _are_ you?"

That one stung a bit more than the first. Gods, Neva really knew where to stick the daggers. "Sheogorath?" I asked my Guildsiblings, and they nodded. With a pointed glance at my sister, I added, "Wish I could have seen _that."_

Even Mercer was laughing as we left the manor.


	22. Oasis

**Hey all you readers, lurkers, and reviewers :) I think the majority of you are gonna like this one :3**

**-)**

"And I'm still trying to figure out how that even worked," Brynjolf half-laughed, half-informed me.

The two of us were sitting at the Bee and Barb in civilian garb, Brynjolf finally making good on his promise back from before I'd left for Solitude. He cleaned up pretty well, for a Nord who spent most of his life in the sewers, I was happy to note. Cleaned up and out of his armor, he didn't seem like the indomitable force that broke me out of a Thalmor prison. No, cleaned up and out of his armor, he simply seemed like a man. A man I was rather confused about, might I add.

I shrugged in response to his statement. "She may not act like it, but Neva's a devout of the Daedra, same as me. Must've scared her half to death, to think a Daedra could possess her flesh and blood." I snorted. "Difference between us is, she's got a full century and a half's worth of practice on me."

"A century and a…?" He seemed to have trouble processing this. I was puzzled at this, then I remembered—humans don't have that kind of lifespan.

"Re-thinking this?" I laughed, gesturing to the two of us.

"Normally I would never ask a woman this," Brynjolf said, still trying to wrap his mind around Neva's age, "but I think we passed 'normal' a long time ago. Ty, just how old _are _you?"

I laughed. "Calm down, Brynjolf. I'm twenty-five. Still a whelp, even in human years."

"Some of those whelps are already whelp_ing," _Brynjolf reminded me with a hearty chuckle.

I rolled my eyes. "And this is why elves say humans breed like Skeevers."

"Elves, Orcs, Argonians, walking, talking cats…" Brynjolf ticked off each sentient race on his fingers.

I smirked. "So your turn to answer the question. How old are you, my friend?"

He was caught in his own trap, and he knew it. "Older than I care to admit," he laughed, "but the good news is, I'm actually older than you…"

"I fail to see how that's good news, but whatever makes you happy."

He sighed and muttered "Twenty-eight." into his tankard.

I smiled. "You're still not that old. You're younger than the Great War, at least."

"Not by much," he snorted, and a small silence fell over us in respect for the dead. Then, just to break the growing silence, he asked, "So, part Nord, eh? Explains a lot."

I had to smile at that. "It really does... my face, my battle cry, the fact that I'm a lot more confrontational than most elves…"

"That you are, my friend. But your face…?" He was resting his chin on his hand now, scrutinizing my face.

"No planes, no angles," I said mimicking what my face _should _look like with my hands as I spoke. "It's rounded off, squared away—human."

He scrutinized it a moment later then proclaimed, "Beautiful." and kissed my forehead.

I could feel my face set itself on fire, and a disbelieving laugh escaped before I could clamp down on it. "You're a clever one, I'll give you that."

He watched his good-natured smirk overtake his face. "That wasn't me being clever, lass. Just honest."

I rolled my eyes. "And I'm _not_ a miscolored Nord."

"That explains it!" At my furrowed brow, he quickly added, "Why I immediately trusted you. You're Dunmeri, but you look familiar. Nordic."

"Actually, that's not a bad theory…" Explained why the Wolf Twins unquestioningly had my back, but not always Athis'. Why Ulfric didn't immediately kick me back to Morrowind when I joined the Stormcloaks. Why some Dunmeri boy had never attempted to court me. My father's blood showed through more than I knew.

Brynjolf knew me too well to mistake my silence for any sort but the brooding sort. "Tiberia, I didn't mean to upset you…"

"You didn't," I interrupted. "I just…" I cut myself off with a sigh. "There are too many questions I don't have answers to. It _bothers _me, not knowing."

"Do you really know nothing?"

"Aye." I nodded. "I was raised to believe my parents were indeed just that. I didn't make the connection until recently that they weren't, and the Thalmor know, which only made me that much surer."

He paused a moment, debating how to phrase his next question. "If even _half_ of what of your sister said is true…"

"It's all true," I said quietly. "In some way or another."

Brynjolf rolled his eyes. "Elven half truths, you mean."

I smiled weakly. "Perhaps. There's something you're dying to ask, isn't there?"

There was a silent war behind his eyes, where curiosity and discretion duked it out for dominance. Curiosity won. "Neva said you killed your mother..?"

I sighed. Now _that _was a messy story. "I didn't literally kill her, didn't drive a stake through her heart or something." His relief was nearly visible. "But her death… is my fault, I guess."

"Don't tell me," he said quietly, "this has to do with your stint on the Summerset Isles?"

I nodded. "I was engaged to a man by the name of Cyrano Feliciano. An Altmer; you knew this."

"There wasn't a name attached, but aye, I did." His brow furrowed as he remembered something. "And isn't he the one your sister just proclaimed undying love for…?"

I sucked in a breath. "Yeah…" I realized there was no getting out of telling this story. "First thing you've got to understand is, Neva joined the Aldmeri Dominion years and years ago, fought in the Great War alongside Cyrano. They were close friends, judging from what my other sister Avalon told me later. Maybe even more."

Brynjolf's eyebrow was in his hairline. "And he ended up engaged to you, how?"

"Neva is a consecrated virgin," I said as though this were normal. "A priestess of Boethiah. She will never marry, never have a family, never carry on the family legacy. And because of this, whatever she would have had with Cyrano was swiftly rendered impossible. But Neva's the clever one, in case you hadn't noticed. She prided herself on looking after her sisters, right up until my—well, _her_—father died and she started noticing things about me that didn't quite make sense. But anyway, when my mother was looking to marry off Avalon and me, House Feliciano 'graciously' offered their youngest son, at Neva's urging."

"And that was Cyrano," Brynjolf finished for me.

I nodded. "I now realize why mother sent _me_ to the Summerset Isles, even though Avalon was older and technically should have been married off first. Even though she was good fifty years Cyrano's senior." I didn't even wait for him to question why. "I reminded my mother of things she'd rather forget. Might as well send me all the way across Tamriel under the guise of 'being a good parent.'"

Brynjolf had this look on his face that explained more words would ever say. "I can't even comprehend that reasoning."

"Well," I said evenly, "you're a Nord. You fight for what is yours, for your family, your honor, your pride. We elves… we don't fight. We just negotiate 'til everyone's unhappy and figure that's good enough. A Nord wouldn't even _consider_ sending a child—your child—halfway across the continent to sell them to the Thalmor."

"No, I wouldn't."

I made the mistake of glancing up at him then, and found myself trapped in his steady gaze. He wasn't staring, so much as sizing up his mark. Trying to unravel the shield I'd painstakingly put up to the world, and finding it rock-steady only made him more curious. There was something unreadable in his eyes, and it made something in me twist uncomfortably. So I broke the connection. "Sorry," I offered immediately, putting up some lame excuse about human eyes being so damn unsettling to me.

"Tiberia." His voice was soft, the kind you use to soothe a spooked animal. I glanced back up to meet his eyes, because how do you ignore that? "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. But let the past stay buried, and you'll be a lot happier." His smile was sad. "Just trust me on this one."

I found myself staring at the bottom of my tankard. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the mysterious Raynor, would it?"

His turn to look for the meaning of life at the bottom of a tankard. "It would," Brynjolf finally replied. "My older brother was my best friend for years. Looked after me after our parents died, when he could have just run to Riften and joined the Guild like he'd wanted to his whole life."

I'm still not sure how it happened but our fingers locked over the table at that point. "So how does Delvin fit into this?" I asked, one of the questions I'd always been curious about.

Brynjolf's smile was warmer at the mention of good ol' Delvin. "Raynor was old enough to join ranks when our parents died, but I wasn't. But Delvin Mallory point-blank refused to land me in Honorhall. Celyon and Juri's son, he said, deserved no less. So I was like the Guild's collective younger brother for a few years, but Delvin kept a special eye on my brother and me."

"Why?"

He smiled. "He and my father, Ceylon, ran together in High Rock, and were separated when Delvin had to hide out with the Dark Brotherhood. They found each other again in Riften years later. I remember random thieves stopping over at our family's home in Falkreath for years. Even Gallus, Mercer, and Karliah stopped by a time or two." He shook his head. "Nasty bit of business, that. It still doesn't make any sense to me."

I wanted to ask about that name, but thought better of it, and instead said, "Look at us, being depressing. I think Keerava's going to lose it."

We both turned to glance at the visibly pregnant Argonian, who waved back merrily, attempting to hide a handkerchief under the bar at the same time. "Upsetting a pregnant woman is _never _a good idea," Brynjolf agreed with a laugh.

And so it went. Talos only knows how long we sat there doing our usual, trading stories back and forth. But something about this time was different. This was no longer two friends catching up after an absence. This was honest-to-the-gods concern about the person sitting across the table. It'd been a long time since I'd both given and received that.

We were standing in the mausoleum above the secret entrance, then. Neither of us really wanted to delve back into the Cistern. This spell, this moment, this whatever-it-was would be broken, then. We both knew it. And so we lingered.

"…And we definitely need to do this again," I was saying, glancing over my shoulder because I could have sworn I heard a guard wandering by.

I could hear the smile in Brynjolf's voice. "Aye, that we do, lass."

I felt myself be enveloped in a surprisingly comforting embrace, and—Ysmir's beard, it was the weirdest thing—I felt no need to break away. It had been… I don't even know how many years it had been since I felt comfortable being hugged. It usually reminds me of combat, and I tend to break away violently. But not with Bryn. With Bryn, I just felt safe. I turned back to face him and received the biggest shock of my life when he kissed me.

It took me a moment to process what just happened in any form of coherence. It was sort of like after the Honningbrew Job, but with more force. There was mostly just honest excitement, a dash of nerves, but also a little something… more. And by the time I figured that out, he'd broken us apart with a grin that said 'sorry I'm _not_ sorry' and a gruff "Been meaning to do that for real for a while, now."

"Good," I said, embarrassedly out of breath. "Then we're even." And I kissed him back.

I was _not_ expecting his grip on me to tighten (or mine on him to help me balance), or to somehow end up lightly pinned against the wall as he continued to kiss me. And me him. We. Augh, I lost track. My mind was going twelve ways, splitting between happy Tiberia and the one who was trying to warn me how this was a bad idea, and the one who remembered her older sister Avalon telling her, "Tiberia, you're going to meet a lot of men in your life. Some you may even love. But wait for the one who will kiss you like he means it." Standing in that Mausoleum at three in the morning, there was only one coherent thought in my mind:

_Brynjolf means it._


	23. Mother's Daughter

**Hey all you readers, lurkers, and wonderful reviewers :) I just realized the other day that I'm closer to 100 reviews than 50, and I consider that a win on everyone's part. Thanks for being so supportive! :)**

-)

A few days later marked the beginning of the end:

"You sure about this, lass?" Brynjolf asked, paused over my half-naked torso with a quizzical expression on his face.

"Yeah," I grimaced from my vantage point on Mercer's desk. "Just do it."

"That is one brave woman," Cynric remarked from somewhere behind my head.

I chomped down on the inside of my cheek as Brynjolf drew the dagger from his belt. His expression was apologetic. "Sorry, Tiberia. This is gonna hurt."

"It's only pain," I managed to get out.

"And try not to re-open her other wounds while you're at it," Ingun ordered with her arms folded across her chest.

Brynjolf rolled his eyes, then sliced through the knot that held the stitches on my abdomen together. With deft and careful hands, he pulled the string from the stitched wound, cautiously easing it away from the blue-gray flesh below to avoid breaking either. I couldn't even watch, preferring instead to bite down on my bracer. "Ty?" Brynjolf's brogue cut into the vicious symphony in my head. "You're good here, but there are two more gashes on your back."

The process was repeated on those two, until finally all the stitches were out and I was sitting upright, my legs dangling off the side of the Guildmaster's desk/operating table. Ingun was slathering one of her potions on the puncture marks, and I figured this was a good thing since my common sense tended to tap dance on Alduin's teeth when Brynjolf was touching me in any way, shape, or form. And speaking of which, the Nord was appraising the wounds with the sort of practiced eye it made me sad he had. "Keep using this," Ingun finally said, tapping the bottle sitting next me on Mercer's desk, "until it's gone, and you should be right as rain. You elves must have amazing healing abilities, because anyone else I know who went through what you did, Tiberia, would probably be dead."

"I'm too stubborn to die," I said matter-of-factly, pulling my cuirass over my head.

Brynjolf and Delvin found this immensely funnier than I'd intended it. "If there's anyone who would punch Arkay in the face and tell him to wait his bloody turn, it's Tiberia," Delvin admitted.

I shot them both a look to melt steel and Delvin, at least, had the good sense to duck away from that. "So Ingun," I asked as I tightened the straps on my armor back into place, "is this the official 'okay' to go back to work?"

She laughed. "Yes, I think you should be fine as long as you don't try to take on six guys twice your size."

"And where's the fun in that?" I muttered as I slid off the operating table.

Brynjolf caught me, sliding an arm around the small of my back and planting a quick kiss on my forehead. "Sorry, lass."

I shrugged as best I could from this new vantage point. "It's alright, Bryn. You act like I've never had stitches before."

"I don't think you've had stitches of that _magnitude_ before," Niruin said pointedly.

I snorted. "Wanna bet?"

Mercer watched the lot of us disperse back into the Cistern from his usual spot behind his desk, shaking his head and muttering things about getting elf blood on the ledger.

"Sorry Mercer!" I called over my shoulder. "I'll try to bleed differently next time!"

"You're going to get yourself shot," Brynjolf half-laughed, half-hissed. "You know that?"

"You think you're the first person to tell me that?" I scoffed. "If I had a Septim for every time my mother…"

"Hey Brynjolf, I need to steal your lover," Vex announced, grabbing a firm hold of my arm and yanking me out of his grasp. "So sorry; find a new space heater for a moment or two."

"What's going on?" The question came from me, not him, however.

Vex just grinned. "Guildsister business. The men folk can go stuff themselves."

Brynjolf's bemused grin amplified the fact that he was having a hard time deciding whether to laugh or feel offended. "I don't know _what_ Delvin sees in you…"

She shrugged. "Bretons have good taste. This is known."

"But elves have the best of all!" I cut off the argument before it began, tugging Vex's arm behind me as I made my way over the Ragged Flagon. It was the only possible place she could have come from.

Lo and behold, sitting out on the dock at the table in the corner were Tonilia and Sapphire, waving Vex and me over with the sense of excited urgency I associated with children being born, or daring escapes from prison. Vex and I plopped down in the chairs across from the two of them, creating a small circle. "Found her," Vex announced, speaking much quieter than I was used to from her. "Told you she'd be with Brynjolf."

My face fell flat. The fact that Brynjolf and I was actually a _thing_ was no longer news. "Yeah, getting my stitches pulled out."

All three of my Guildsisters winced. "That must have hurt, so much," Sapphire grimaced.

I shrugged. "It's only pain. Now, what's going on?"

"Yes, Tonilia, now that we've found our wayward Dunmeri friend," Vex said, only partially sarcastically, "please do tell us. What's going on?"

I glanced to my Redguard friend and realized she was grinning ear-to-ear. My brow furrowed at the strange turn of events. Not that I had a problem with my friends being happy, but this wasn't normal happy. This was... something else entirely. Euphoria. Ecstasy. Bliss. Somethingbigger and badder than normal happy.

Tonilia looked from Sapphire, to me, to Vex, and back again, while reaching into one of the many pockets on her armor. She withdrew her hand a moment later, and exposed the contents to the circle. A golden disc with a blue stone set in the center and a chain attached to one end sat in her palm, and even I recognized that Amulet. "Vekel proposed," I said matter-of-factly, but a slow grin was spreading across my face.

Tonilia nodded, still smiling.

"And you finally said yes." Vex was smirking without malice—her version of a smile.

Tonilia's smile got just that much wider, that much truer. "After Tiberia's incarceration, we sort of realized how short life can be—this one, especially."

"And stopped being stupid!" Sapphire laughed, nudging Tonilia in the ribs.

I cocked an eyebrow. "How many times has Vekel proposed, Tonilia?"

She held up three unapologetic fingers.

"Bloody hell," I said, "you're even more stubborn than I am!"

"Is that even _possible?"_ Vex asked.

I shot her a look. "You remember my older sister Neva…?"

"Aye, that's right!" Vex was actually laughing. "It took a fake daedric possession to finally get her to talk!"

That story was old news within the Guild, but that didn't make it any less hilarious. "I do wish I could have seen that," Sapphire lamented jokingly.

I rolled my eyes. "I've done the impression at least a million times since then."

"Yeah, but there's no terrified Dunmer to gawk at," Tonilia added.

I rolled my eyes. "It wasn't that funny."

Vex snorted. "Yes it was. Anyway…" she turned back to Tonilia. "…this calls for a celebration! Thieves Guild Style, of course."

My poor eyebrow was getting lost in my hairline at this point. "I think getting drunk is pretty universal, Vex."

The other three just laughed. "That's the _men's _style," Sapphire scoffed. "Ours is a tad more… eh, lucrative."

-)

"Brynjolf looked like a _kicked puppy_ when you left, Ty," Sapphire informed me as we four Guildsisters sat in the back of a carriage. "What have you _done _to him?"

"Hey, in his defense," Tonilia interjected before I could, "the last time she left on a job, he had to break into a Thalmor Embassy to get her out. I wouldn't be too fond of letting her go, either."

"Yeah, he was not happy about that one," Vex laughed. "Course, neither were Delvin and I. Never heard him so quiet."

"Delvin, or Bryn?" I asked, finally getting a word in edgewise.

She paused as though thinking about it. "Both, actually. Especially in each other's presence. Those two chatter on like old women." She turned to me. "You know, I have never seen Brynjolf that worried about _anyone—_his brother Raynor included."

"Not sure what that means," I said carefully, unsure of where Vex was going with this.

Mercifully, she shrugged. "I don't either. Bryn's not easy to figure out at the best of times. Though I'd wager it means he cares about you more than he'll readily admit."

Thankfully, I was spared a retort by the half-deaf, aged driver informing us we'd reached our destination. The four of us hopped down off the back of the carriage, and stood at the gaping maw of the next beast to be conquered—Windhelm. As the carriage rumbled away, I said, "Never thought I'd be back here."

"Oh yeah, aren't you from Windhelm?" Sapphire asked as we hiked up the stone battlements towards the inside of the city. Night had fallen and the moons were just past new, making this a rather dangerous trek.

"I'm _from_ Morrowind," I replied swiftly. "I stayed with a friend of the family in Windhelm when I first got to Skyrim."

"Your Uncle, wasn't it?" Tonilia asked, and I cursed her thoughtful nature.

"He's not technically my Uncle," I said, coming up with a quick story in the event we ran into Galmar, Ulfric, or Jorleif on the street, "more just an old friend of my father's. My sisters and I grew up calling him Uncle."

"So if he ain't Dunmeri, what is he?" Sapphire asked, pushing open the enormous door that led into the city.

"Nord," I answered as the four of us finally stood in the cramped, stone city of Ysgramor. It must have been a sight to see the four of us, all different races, standing in identical armor and looking ready to take on a herd of Mammoths bare-handed.

"Might actually be your father, then," Vex jested.

I winced at the thought. "Dear Azura, I hope not. But anyway, can we stay away from Hjerim? It's the house on the end of the residential row; it's where he lives." I was more lying to keep Calder out of the way than watch my own back. Money, wealth, possessions… they mean next to nothing to me. _People_ matter. Inventory doesn't.

"Of course," said Tonilia instantly. "We don't steal from our own."

And the four of us broke apart to wreak havoc on the town. Breaking into whichever homes or stores struck our fancy, taking whatever did the same—the adrenaline from unbridled larceny kept us high all night. And the terror of running into someone who knew me put me on an even higher plane of alertness. It nearing dawn, and I accepted the stupidest bet I think I ever have: "Hey, Tiberia, bet you can't break into the Palace of the Kings!"

And that's how I ended skulking around the place at this late (early?) hour. As with Whiterun, this self-preserving Dovahkiin stole from herself to keep the guilt from swallowing her whole. I had picked the lock to my own room, and dug around a moment for something I could use. I had one of my ebony swords carefully strapped across my back and was halfway down the hall when I heard a familiar, Nordic drawl that made my blood run cold: "Morwyn? What are you doing here?"

I turned gingerly in this cramped, dimly lit hall, only to come face to face with the Jarl of Windhelm himself, clearly confused at my presence and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Being in close quarters with Ulfric always makes me profoundly uncomfortable, for reasons I've never understood. Nevertheless, I put a finger to my lips—the 'shh!' symbol—and said through it, "Completing your charade."

"Why haven't you written?" Ulfric asked, blinking the last of the dream world away and bringing his piercing gaze to full power. "We've been worried sick."

My brow furrowed. Something wasn't right here. "I was incarcerated by the Thalmor…"

His eyes grew wide. _"What? _When? How?"

"Ulfric, I don't have time for this," I said warningly, nervously glancing over my shoulder.

"Morwyn." He had his hands on either of my shoulders, and I whipped my gaze back to face him. "What is taking so long in Riften? Is something wrong?"

"It's complicated," I said, fighting the urge to shrug off his hands. "If you want me to break them for good, you'll just have to trust me." Surely the gods were laughing at this deceitful Dunmer, asking for trust. "You do, don't you?"

"Of course," he said, his own brow furrowing. "I trust all my generals, but Dovahkiin…"

The title sent a shock through my systems, bringing me sharply back to the present. "Ulfric, _I have to go."_

"Why? What is so pressing that…?"

"Your charade, remember?" I interrupted coldly, gesturing to my armor.

He narrowed his eyes, sizing me up once more. "Something's different about you, Dragonborn. I don't know what, but something."

I studied my boots. "I'm the same, Ulfric. Maybe it's you that's changed."

Our gazes locked, then, the gray and the crimson. And all of a sudden, he released his grip on me and waved me away, as though this were a normal meeting between a Thane and a Jarl. "Come back safely to us, Morwyn. I don't want to lose you."

Instead of sounding caring, the statement felt vaguely ominous. "I will do my best," I said, already taking off down the hall.

I heard him mutter something about the eyes never lying as I hurried away. Galmar's gaze followed me out the door questioningly, but I ignored it with a practiced callousness. I met up with Vex, Tonilia, and Sapphire in the Gray Quarter, my chest heaving and my heart beating wildly. This charade was getting out of hand.

"I didn't think you could do it!" Vex exclaimed, clapping me on the back. "Guess you're better than we thought you were."

I had just opened my mouth to retort when a guard forced me to shut it again: "Hey, I know you. You're wanted women. All of you!"

We turned as one to face this guard, dressed in the armor of Windhelm (which, I'm fairly certain, was just a Stormcloak Cuirass) and a helmet that hid his eyes. "You're mistaken, surely," Tonilia said smoothly. "We were just visiting our friend, here." She gestured to me.

"Damned Gray-Skin, brining criminals into…"

"Stand back, human," I hissed. "You don't know what you're dealing with."

"Oh, I think I know a worthless elf when I see one." He drew his axe, keeping the torch in his other hand raised high. "You're all coming with me."

"I don't think so," Vex growled, drawing her sword.

"Show some respect," I said, bringing my Stormcloak Officer's tone out of mothballs. "You speak to the Thane of Windhelm."

Three pairs of eyes turned to stare at me, and I watched the guard's knees go weak. "Lady Morwyn? Is that you? I didn't recognize you out of your Glass armor! Forgive me, I…"

I shot him a look. "Shut up and go about your business, and I may not have you court-martialed."

"Of course! Right away, Dovahkiin!" The guard hurried away, practically tripping over himself in his haste to get away.

I turned to my Guildsisters, all of whom were gawking at me with their mouths open. "Are you really Thane of Windhelm?" Vex asked with a look of complete disbelief on her face.

I snorted and shook my head, an evil grin quirking across my features. "No, but when I lived here, I was told I looked like her."

I don't think any of them stopped laughing all the way back to Riften.


	24. Harbingers of the End Times

**Hey all you readers, lurkers, and wonderful reviewers :) Have a celebratory chapter because my laptop is back! :D I loved writing this one. Too damn funny.**

**Also, GreenNebula4, since you apparently have PM disabled, thanks so much for your review :D I'm glad you enjoyed it so much**

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The day we got back to Riften, the Guild was a flurry of activity. Apparently, Rune and Thrynn had come back from a job in Markarth that was finally—FINALLY—successful, Niruin had managed to collect the debts from the local shop owners without having to resort to brawls and/or petty threats, and Delvin apparently owed Vekel a grand total of five hundred and thirteen Septims from their poker game the other night when the Guildbrothers had celebrated his engagement. And on top of all that, some idiot had pointed out they'd never done the Guild tradition for Sheogorath's summoning day.

So, that's how everyone came to be standing on the shores of Lake Honrich at twilight. A massive bonfire roared a few paces away from the lapping shoreline, and though the snow from Evening Star had melted away, it was still freezing because hey—that's all it ever is in Skyrim. And that was one of the many reasons I was not looking forward to this tradition. The other?

"Well Tiberia," Delvin explained to me as the entire Guild stood around the fire, "traditionally on Sheogorath's summoning day, we honor the MadGod by having the Guildmaster toss all the new recruits into Lake Honrich. But, seeing as and you were unconscious for the actual summoning day, we couldn't exactly throw you into the lake in good conscience."

"Much obliged," I said flatly.

"And, since you're the _only _recruit to make it to the summoning day this year," Delvin continued, our Guildmates hooting their approval, "that means you're the only one going into the lake."

"Whose bright idea was this?" I asked, still not pleased about this turn of events.

"No one knows," Vipir said brightly. "Just that it's older than any of us."

"Lighten up, lass," Brynjolf said, laughing good-naturedly. "We've all been subjected to this."

"That doesn't make it any less stupid," I huffed. "I'm a Dunmer. We're resistant to _fire."_

Tonilia was laughing. "You're also half Nord, so go put your bloodline to good use!"

"Shut up, you," I growled as Mercer Frey finally made his way out to the lake, for some reason with Maven Black-Briar in tow.

"Evening, Maven," Delvin said, suddenly all charm. "What brings you to the Guild this fine evening?"

I snorted, and Brynjolf elbowed me in the ribs. "I've never actually seen this particular tradition," Maven said crisply. "And quite honestly, I could use a good laugh after the week I've had."

"She laughs?" I muttered to Brynjolf under my breath, and he snorted despite himself.

"This'll take care of that," Vex said, pressing a bottle into Maven's hand. She then turned to shout: "Tiberia! You'd best get in the water before sundown! It'll only get colder the longer you wait!"

There was no arguing with that logic, so I slid out of my cuirass, boots, bracers, and Mehrunes' Razor, leaving me standing in the crisp Skyrim winter wind in just my under things. I left my things by the fire, already mourning the loss of its warmth as I began to slink away from its glow. "I have the distinct feeling I'm going to regret this," I muttered as I followed Mercer up the short ridge to the drop-off point.

"Didn't you say you're too stubborn to die?" he asked without even a hint of his usual black humor.

"Well yeah, but that I hardly think that qualifies when you're getting dumped into a freezing lake," I said. "Who thought of this, anyway?"

Mercer rolled his eyes. "No one knows. But it's older than even _me."_

"Whoa," I joked, through frustrated I got the same answer from him as from Delvin. "Must be ancient."

I forgot, Mercer doesn't laugh. This made standing at the edge of the ridge even more awkward than it would have been originally. He sized me up a moment, then shrugged and roughly gathered me up in his arms. "Here's hoping you _dovah _can swim," he growled.

And with that, Mercer flung me bodily into the lake.

The shock of the icy water hit me almost as hard as the shock of Mercer calling me _dovah_—a dragon, basically. His ignorance of Draconic was showing, but that wasn't what knocked the wind out of my lungs. He _knew. _He knew enough of the Dragon language to call me out for what I was. He _knew. _I didn't how, or why, or even if he was just throwing daggers in the dark. But Mercer Frey knew who he was dealing with—whether or not he'd told the rest of the Guild was the more important question. And one day—one day soon—I'd have to contend with that.

But I had more pressing matters to deal with at that specific moment. I was disoriented, having been thrown into the water as I'd been, and couldn't tell up from down. After a few moments of vainly flailing around, I realized the bubbles I was exhaling were travelling a certain way. I followed them.

I broke the surface of the water a moment later, shouting, "_YSMIR'S BEARD, THAT'S COLD!"_

My Guildsiblings were howling with laughter as I swam to shore using a strange conglomeration of styles I'd learned as a child. Sapphire was waiting at the water's edge with a thick woolen cloak, which she promptly wrapped around my shoulders. "You may want to dry off a moment before getting back into your armor," she said quietly. "Or not only will you smell like wet dog, you'll be freezing all night."

My teeth were chattering by the time I reclaimed my spot at the bonfire next to Brynjolf and Tonilia, holding the cloak tightly closed around me. "Good news is, you never have to do that again," Tonilia said to me with a smile.

I just shot her a look from underneath my sopping wet hair. The effect was rather undermined by my chattering teeth and shaking shoulders, I'd say.

"Guess you're less Nord than we thought," Brynjolf observed, hugging me tightly to his chest, and I was instantly grateful for the warmth.

"Now you're officially in the Guild, Little Elf," Mercer smirked from across the bonfire. Maven was cackling with laughter next to him.

"I wouldn't call her that," Brynjolf called over to him.

"Why not?" the Guildmaster asked.

I felt Brynjolf shrug behind me. "She hates it." He glanced down to me. "What is it you say…?" His head snapped back up when he remembered. "'There is one man in Tamriel who can call me that, and you are clearly not him.'"

"Aye, that's it!" Delvin laughed. "And by the way Tiberia, who is that man, anyway?"

I was still shivering uncontrollably, but thankfully my teeth had quit chattering. "Farkas of the Companions," I answered. "He's the size of… probably three of me. And I've learned its best to pick your battles when it comes to him."

More laughter. "More Companions?" Rune said with laugh. "You must have been some member."

I shrugged. "I was alright, I suppose. Made it into the Circle." My common sense was bitching at me to shut up, and for once, I had to agree with it. What was I _thinking, _talking about this so freely? I was going to get myself caught.

The Nords in the Guild were all wide-eyed at that revelation. "Did you really?" Thrynn asked.

I employed one of Neva's favorite 'get off my case!' tactics: "Why would I lie about that?"

They all had to admit, there was no reason to. And so the chilly night wore on. Even once I was back in my armor, I was still cold. (Not that Brynjolf minded being my extra body heat for a while.) But my personal discomfort was overshadowed at the moment by Vekel and Tonilia. They both were so happy, wrapped up in their own little world for most of the night. It made me smile, seeing my Redguard friend so perfectly happy; I was glad _someone _could be, around here.

And I 'd never seen Delvin and Vex be anything but Senior Members in each other's presence before that night, either. But this time… Eh, maybe it was the drink, maybe the celebration, or maybe their mutual laughter at the expense of their Dunmeri friend, but they seemed more like any other couple in Skyrim. Their relationship, for once, centered on each other, and not on business. She was in his lap most of the night, and quite frankly, they were being even more open about things than Brynjolf was.

But far more interesting than either of these established flings was the fact that Sapphire was sitting curled up in a ball a few paces back from the fire, and who should plunk down beside her but Thrynn. He managed to coax her out of her shell, at the least for the moment, and I couldn't help but admire the man's patience. And also wonder how anything between those two would work, given that Thrynn used to be a bandit and Sapphire tended to slit the throats of such people.

It was well past midnight by the time the Guild (and Maven) began the lazy trek back into Riften. But a shriek went up from the city, and we confused thieves slipped back into our territory in less than a minute. We stood in the marketplace, trying to get a feel for the chaos breaking out in our city. "Someone's broken into Riftweald," Mercer said, cursing his fortune in the same breath. "But everything I have of value is in the Cistern…"

"Neva!" I exclaimed.

Brynjolf, Vex, and Delvin all whipped around to face me, but realizing what I was doing, broke out into a run behind me. But we were all too slow, as a lone figure holding another was silhouetted against the moon, standing on Mercer's roof. "So sorry," called a smooth, accented voice from atop the manor. "We'll just be taking this, and…"

Before the sentence was finished, Niruin had sent an arrow into the would-be kidnapper's shoulder. S/he howled in pain, clearly breaking off the shaft and yanking the arrowhead out. "You really shouldn't have done that," they growled, and jumped off the roof in one fluid movement, landing lithely on their feet.

Now on the ground, I finally got a good look at this woman. She ripped the hood off her face, revealing blue-gray skin, glossy, raven-black hair that fell to her waist, and eyes that shone a dull cherry-red. She wore the black and red armor of the Dark Brotherhood, and I could have sworn I felt my heart stop beating a moment just at that fact. But what really did me in was when she stepped into the light, saying smoothly, "So an archer, eh? Useless."

I was frozen in time, thrown back to the last time I'd seen this woman, heard this voice. I was all of fourteen years old and leaving for the Summerset Isles. "Back off, Avalon," I called. "Or I'll claw your eyes out."

She whirled on me, scrutinizing my face. "Little Tiberia, is that you? I don't believe it! You're in with the Thieves Guild? Moving up in the world, I see."

A shocked silence fell across the Guild. "And you're in the Dark Brotherhood," I said, just as shocked as my Guildmates.

She smiled that haughty, I-know-something-you-don't-know smile I hated. "I'm not just _in _the Dark Brotherhood, dear sister…" She leapt out of range of my swords, giggling all the while. "…I'm the _Listener!"_

"The Brotherhood hasn't had a Listener in years," Delvin said, trying to wrap his mind around this.

"Yes, well." Avalon lost her bubbly edge. "When a corpse deigns it necessary to talk to you, even the Dark Brotherhood sits up and takes notice."

Brynjolf winced. "You're Tiberia's sister, alright."

"Oh, that reminds me!" Avalon called up the roof: "Sister dear! Care to join us?"

All hell broke loose at that point, as a werewolf jumped from the roof with Neva clinging desperately to the fur on its back. Avalon sicced herself on me as the wolf blew by, and all of a sudden, the Guild was surrounded by members of the Dark Brotherhood. "You're _assassins!"_ I howled over the clash of our blades. "Not Companions!"

"Special case," Avalon said, swinging her sword around to meet mine with a dancer's flourish.

As I battled it out with my other sister, my Guildmates were assaulted by all the other members of the Brotherhood. These two Guilds of stealth, however, weren't meant for close, open combat like this, which is how I managed to press my advantage. Avalon and I hacked, slashed, and parried like we'd done a hundred times as children, never faltering, never stuttering. We were pretty evenly matched, and I was pretty sure my magic was still out of commission. If she got smart enough to start casting spells, I'd be good as dead.

Avalon, however, knew from past experience that she couldn't best me. I should have been ready for some sort of trick. But was too focused on keeping her from using magic, on navigating Riften's twists and turns, that when I had her pressed against the railing that kept idiots from falling into the canal, I though I had her. "Well sister dear," she grunted, disentangling our blades, "it's been fun. But I really must be going." And with that, she flung herself under the railing and landed in the canal with a _sploosh. _

I was all ready to go after her, but Brynjolf's hand on my shoulder stopped me. "The current has her now; you'll never catch up."

I turned, noting that the Guild was a little bloodied, but all in one piece. "You have another sister?" Mercer called over to me from somewhere by the Bee and Barb.

I nodded distantly. "Aye."

"By the damned Nine…"


	25. Now and Forever

**And here we are—shameless fluff before all hell breaks loose :)**

**As always, thanks to all you readers, lurkers, and wonderful reviewers :)**

**And a random thought, why do I tend to end sentences with a :)? Hmmm… **strokes imaginary beard****

**-)**

I sat on the edge of my bed in the Cistern a week later, my feet on the floor, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, trying to make sense of my life. My secrets were eating away at my insides, and Meridia's warnings and were only serving to further the need to_ tell someone. _It felt twelve different kinds of wrong to be keeping these things from Brynjolf, from Tonilia, from Niruin… from everyone. Mercer knew; what was I hiding?

Oh, that's right. All hell would break loose the instant I told anyone. Besides, I wasn't about to ruin Tonilia's wedding day like that.

I had almost told him yesterday—Brynjolf, that is. I was spared that dreaded conversation by his stubborn Nord pride—or rather, Vekel's. Brynjolf, Vipir, and Thrynn, being the resident Nords in the Guild, had to shoulder the entire burden of whatever it is Nord men do before their weddings. We'll talk later, he promised apologetically, there's just so much that needs to be done.

And why hadn't Mercer told anyone yet? Or come to me? The man had the ultimate bargaining chip poised over my head, and yet made no move to use it. And how long had he known? Why hadn't he confronted me before now? And why, oh _why, _did he have to mention it before sending me crashing headfirst into Lake Honrich?

And Avalon… how did she get tangled up with the Dark Brotherhood? She was Morag Tong, and damn proud of it. Something _enormous _would have had to happen for her to change Guilds like that. And the Dark Brotherhood weren't search-and-rescue; they were cold-blooded killers. Either Neva was dead, would be shortly, or someone in the Brotherhood was looking out for her and called an off-the-books favor.

With a weary sigh, I pulled my cuirass over my underthings and stuffed my aching feet into my boots and padded over the to Ragged Flagon. It felt strangely empty with the absence of Vekel, but given the fact that he was getting married that night, it was forgivable. I felt lost without Tonilia to bother, or one of Brynjolf's schemes to listen to. She was busy being schooled by Sapphire on a traditional Nord marriage, and he was busy doing some sacred traditions and whatnot with Vekel.

"Feeling lost?" Delvin prodded good-naturedly, taking up residence in the chair across from me.

"A bit," I admitted, absentmindedly picking apart a loaf of bread with unfeeling fingers. "Where's Vex?"

The old Breton smiled mournfully. "Sapphire needed some help with our Redguard friend. Vex was volunteered."

I had to laugh at that. "Cheers," I said sullenly, clunking my tankard against his.

We drank in companionable silence for a time, but once Delvin got to pontificating, the atmosphere just went to pot. "…And hopefully this curse of ours won't hurt them any," he was saying. "Not like it did Ceylon and Juri."

I recognized those names. "Brynjolf's parents?"

"Aye." Delvin was visibly surprised. "I suppose Brynjolf's told you about them?"

"Only in passing." I set down my tankard. "He doesn't like talking about his family much. And given how much I like talking about mine, I can't say I blame him."

He snorted at that. "Has he mentioned they both ran with the Riften Guild?"

I nodded. "And that's how you reconnected with his father after you were run out of High Rock?"

Delvin nodded, staring into the dregs of his tankard. "I miss that crazy old coot. Always up for an adventure, Ceylon was. If there was a dangerous job, he'd be the first to take it. And Juri…" He let out a low whistle. "…she could pick a lock in two seconds flat, melt right into the shadows, and charm any man, to boot." He let out a worn breath, then. "And they fell in love so hard that… well, to use the Dunmeri expression, it made their ancestors dizzy."

"Did they stay with the Guild?" I couldn't help but ask. "Afterwards?"

Delvin nodded. "They did, for a time. But the Cistern is no place to raise a family. When Juri found out she was pregnant with Raynor, the both of them went inactive. Ended up in Falkreath, and kept an eye on the Dark Brotherhood for us. A few years later brought Brynjolf, and a few more years after that, their untimely demises."

"What happened?" I asked, thoroughly ensconced in Delvin's story.

He shook his head sadly. "Being in the Guild makes you a lot of enemies, Tiberia. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. After Karliah went berserk and our luck started turning, a lot of old enemies came out of hiding. Being so close to the border to Cyrodiil made them easy targets. Both sons came back to Riften after the fact. Raynor was old enough to join and promptly did so, but Brynjolf was still too young to understand what exactly he was getting himself into." The old Breton chuckled at some private joke. "I still think he doesn't really know. Explains how he got involved with you, no offense meant."

"None taken," I assured him, leaning back in my chair to digest this new information.

-)

The last time I'd been in the Temple of Mara, I'd been forcibly dragged in here by my pointy ears, and been forced to pray to Divines I didn't worship. This time was far more pleasant—I strode right in through the front doors along with my Guildmates. Having spent most of the morning casting spells at a warded Delvin, I was feeling pretty damn good. All it took was bath, some clean, fine clothes, and a bit of good spellcasting, and Tiberia Morwyn was back in the saddle, bitches.

I claimed the end of a pew towards the back of the temple, and wasn't really surprised when Brynjolf materialized out of nowhere to claim my other side. "Successfully terrorized Vekel?" I asked with a smirk.

"Aye, lass," he replied with a similar countenance. "By the way, what was it you wanted to talk about the other day?"

It was like he'd dumped a bucket of ice water over my head, my mood dropped so fast. But I had an out! "Not now; there's a wedding going on."

He smirked, and laced our fingers together at the edge of my skirts and under the cover of the temple's semidarkness. "Later, then."

Something about the way he said that sent a shiver down my spine. And though I said, "Aye, later." I still turned to the aisle, thankful to have something else to focus on, other than the handsome (and utterly distracting) Nord on my right.

Vekel was being led up the aisle by a rather bewildered Vex, though she hid it well. "Should be his mother," Brynjolf whispered to me, sensing my confusion. "But she's been gone years, now. So it's another important woman in his life."

He cleaned up nicely, this skinny brown-haired Nord who kept my Guild well supplied with mead every night. He'd obviously bathed for the first time in… probably ever, now that I stopped to think about it. His hair was braided and tied off, the traditional Nord way, and his clothes were cleaned and freshly washed (not to mention, much nicer than what he usually tended bar, in. His Sundas best, as it were). I could almost see what Tonilia saw in him in that fleeting moment. He took his place at the altar, and on the other side Maramal was giving him an encouraging smile.

Then the door to the temple opened once more to reveal the bride. But it wasn't my drinking buddy standing there—no, this was some dark, desert princess gliding smoothly up the aisle. She was dressed in traditional Redguard marriage attire—loose, flowing trousers, shoes with hooked toes, and a shirt that bared her midriff, shoulders, and arms. The veil that covered her face was tied into a ponytail on the top of her head, and the entire ensemble was dyed a brilliant crimson with alternating patterns of intricate gold filigree. Mercer Frey led her up the aisle, depositing her across from Vekel with a clap on the Nord's shoulder and a knowing grin. Clearly, Tonilia's father wasn't around, either.

I turned to Sapphire, who was seated behind me, because I just had to know. "Where in blazes did you get _that?" _I asked her under my breath.

Sapphire grinned, and I realized with a start that Thrynn was seated next to her. I suppose should have seen that one coming, but eh. I've had a lot on my mind. "A buddy of mine is a tailor in Markarth and owed me a favor," she hissed back. "And he was _more _than happy to procure it for us. His only lament was that Iwouldn't be the one to wear it." She rolled her eyes, and I had to grin at the way Thrynn's hands involuntarily clenched at the news. _Oh yeah, he'll treat her just fine._

"It was Mara the first gave birth to all of creation and pledged to watch over us as her children," boomed the priest Maramal from the front of the temple, and my head whipped back around to watch the ceremony. I'd never seen one performed under the eye of the Divines. "It is from her love of us that we first learned to love one another. It is from this love that we learn that a life lived alone is no life at all." He paused his speech to look around the room, a smile splitting his face from ear-to-ear. "We gather here today—under Mara's loving gaze—to bear witness to the union of two souls in eternal companionship." He turned to the bride. "Tonilia, Daughter of Ruptga." Then to the groom. "Vekel the Man, Son of Talos."

He then turned back to face the congregation. "The sand and snow meet here, on this most joyous occasion. May these children of Mara journey forth together in this life and the next, in prosperity and poverty, in joy and hardship." He bowed his head a moment, and when he raised it again, his voice was solemn, biding. "Do you, Vekel, agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?"

Vekel didn't hesitate. "I do, now and forever." His accent had never seemed thicker than it had that moment.

Maramal continued, clearly relieved. "Do you, Tonilia, agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?"

She didn't either. "I do, now and forever."

Maramal's ear-to-ear grin was back, and I had to hand it to the priest. He knew how to silence a room, and his happiness was infectious. "Under the Authority of Mara, the Divine of Love, I declare this couple to be wed!"

I couldn't help but smile as Vekel carefully flipped Tonilia's veil around and kissed her. It was good to see my friends so happy.

Maramal, meanwhile, reached into a pocket of his robe and added, "I present the two of them with these matching rings, blessed by Mara's divine grace. May they protect each of you in your new life together."

Vekel slipped one onto the third finger of Tonilia's left hand, and she did the same for him with the other. And then, in what I later learned was accordance with the Redguard tradition, he gathered Tonilia up in his arms, and strode down the aisle. For a Redguard couple, they weren't officially married until he carried her out of the temple. Only then were they officially bound. Until then, the wedding could still be nullified. And once Vekel strode through the double doors and down the steps, the rest of us finally stood. I heard Sapphire breathe a sigh of relief from behind me, and quirked a questioning eyebrow in her direction.

"When Tonilia told me about that, I wasn't sure Vekel could handle it," she confessed to me as the congregation began to disperse. "He's never been the strongest of sorts."

I had to laugh at that. "I'm pretty sure he'd take on a dragon in his skivvies armed with nothing but a rusty kitchen knife, if Tonilia asked him to."

I heard Brynjolf's hearty laugh over my shoulder and his accent add, "Actually, he probably would. It's hopeless; the man's so far gone."

"Not unlike another Nord I know," Thrynn quipped, cuffing Brynjolf upside the head with a grin.

Bryn slammed a retaliatory fist into Thrynn's arm. "Don't insult us; you know Delvin's not a Nord."

Thrynn let out a short, barking laugh as the four of us descended the stairs. "Uh, not quite what I meant, Brynjolf."

Brynjolf's evil grin informed the rest of us that he was aware of that, thanks. We reached the bottom of the stairs, and I felt myself pulled off the side of the stairs, and into an unexpected kiss. His aggravating beard dug into my skin, but the discomfort was minor in comparison to what else was going on.

There were no sparks from kissing Bryn. The occasional shock from not expecting it, sure, but no butterflies took up residence in my stomach, no world-shattering revelations were suddenly clear. It just felt… human. I used to shudder at the word, but there's just no better one for the feeling. Being with him, around him… it was easy as breathing. Funny, how easy and yet uneasy the man could simultaneously make me.

He broke us apart after a moment, and neither of us said anything for the space of a few breaths. I had to break it; this silence was killing me. "You clean up pretty well, for a Nord who spends most of his time in the sewers," I smiled.

He grinned. "You're always beautiful; I find complimenting you rather redundant. But, eh, I'll probably keep at it a while longer." He glanced down at the rest of me moment. "Though you in a dress is truly a sight for sore eyes."

I snorted, and playfully shoved him off me. "Come on you great lout; everyone's probably already at the Bee and Barb."

He tapped his temple, classic Oh-I-got-ya style. "I like the way you think, Dunmer."

I laughed, tugging him out of the shadows and into the rising dusk. "You like the way the _Nord_ in me thinks."

"Possibly," he agreed, catching up with me in two easy strides. "But the Dunmer is what makes it interesting. Daedra worship, destruction magic, and just a dash of madness—life is never boring with you around, Tiberia."


	26. The Eye of the Storm

**Whew! **wipes forehead** All the sweetness in these last few chapters has been making my teeth itch. Now we can finally get back to cracking skulls :3**

**As always, thanks to all my readers, lurkers, and wonderful reviewers :) You guys are the best**

**-)**

The reception was already in full swing by the time Brynjolf and I waltzed in the door to the Riften tavern. The place had been rented out for the night, courtesy of the Thieves Guild, but the entire town was more or less welcome at the place. Mead was flowing like water (as it tended to at _every _Nord celebration), and good food was hardly a rare commodity. A few bards from the college in Solitude had been hired for the evening, and they'd set up outside. The Marketplace had been cleared out earlier, leaving a large, open space for the inevitable dancing that would take place this night.

An exuberant Keerava accosted us the moment we walked in the door, and we, of course, accepted tankards of _whatever _from the overworked Argonian. "Should you be on your feet, Keerava?" I asked carefully. She was getting ready to lay her eggs soon; the extra weight _had _to be killing her feet.

She smiled wearily. "You sound like Talen. Thank you, but I'll be fine, elfling." She clapped my shoulder affectionately and smiled at Brynjolf in such a knowing matter I felt a flush creep its way up my neck. "The two of you, however, have no excuse not to be outside with the rest of your friends." For the moment, at least, Keerava had made peace with the Guild.

Brynjolf was grinning. "Wonderful idea, Keerava."

"What? No." My eyes were wide. "Horrible idea. I can't dance! Well, not like a human, anyway."

Brynjolf smirked good-naturedly into his tankard. "Just follow my lead, lass, and you'll find it remarkably like fencing."

He was right, I hate to say. I've never been a fan of human dancing. Take a sword out of my hands and suddenly I can't read their slow, clumsy movements. But I wouldn't have a chance to test his theory at first, for the minute we approached the Marketplace-turned-dance-floor, Vipir yanked Brynjolf aside for more Nord traditions. I leaned against the wall surrounding the marketplace next to Rune and Sapphire to watch the impending fireworks. The Imperial had just as much idea as to what was going on as I did, but the Nord was happy to fill us in.

The band of bards immediately dropped whatever they'd been playing, and the dance floor cleared, leaving Vekel, Vipir, Thrynn, and Brynjolf standing by themselves in the middle (or so, since there was a giant well there). Then the bards struck up a familiar melody, the man's clear tenor singing in pretty damn near perfect Draconic:

"_Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, naal ok zin los vahriin,_

_Wah dein, vokul, mahfaeraak ahst vahl!"_

The power of those words—even spoken by someone untrained in the Thu'um—made said Thu'um pulse within me painfully, begging me to join in the song and release the build up of power. But I held my tongue and forced myself to focus on what was going on in the square. "This is the traditional show of power," Sapphire explained to Rune and me. "A man must prove his prowess in battle before he can take a wife."

"They're already married," Rune pointed out, but Sapphire just shushed him.

Keeping perfect time with the _Song of the Dragonborn, _the Nords in the plaza began a war dance of sorts. The entire thing was a pantomimed fight, each man lunging and swinging exaggeratedly, and eventually Vekel emerged victorious. As the last strains of the song died down, the older Nord men in town roared their approval, which I took to mean Vekel'd proven himself well enough. I'll never know, when it comes to Nords.

Brynjolf reclaimed his place by my side a moment later, not looking any worse for wear. "You Nords and your traditions," I smiled into my empty tankard.

"Oh, no you don't," Brynjolf laughed, gently prying the mug from my fingers, and setting it down on the wall. "Come on; time you got acquainted with some of them."

He led me back out to the dance floor, amid the crush of bodies and stench of sweat. His hand found its way to my hip, mine to his shoulder, and the others intertwined a short ways away from our bodies. And then I realized, I had to fully tilt my head back to get a decent look at him. It was easy to forget my diminutive stature when I was cutting down men left and right on the battlefield, or slithering about the shadows, but standing against Brynjolf reminded me—_holy shit, _was I short!

As promised, he took the lead, and we settled into a comfortable rhythm, akin to an easy round of sparring, at least for me. This Master Thief was light on his feet, something my elven blood was immensely grateful for. I wasn't sure how well this would work with some muscle-bound warrior. _Maybe that's why Vilkas never asked you to dance... _I viciously clamped down on any and all thoughts of that man. In this moment, it was Brynjolf standing across from me, and that was what mattered.

He led us easily through an old Nordic dance, one I'd seen performed drunkenly at the Bannered Mare many a time. I found myself watching the same marks I did when in a fight—the shoulders, the hips, the hands and feet. They told me what to move, and when, and where, and suddenly keeping step with Brynjolf wasn't so difficult after all. I couldn't help but smile, grateful for this one moment of peace with this utterly-confusing-and-yet-charming-anyhow friend of mine.

We disappeared inside to find food after a while alongside Vex and Delvin, who had been keeping life interesting during the Imperial waltzes that nobody knew _how_ Delvin knew. The four of us were just sitting around, shooting the breeze, congratulating either member of the happy couple every time one walked by, when Niruin sidled up next to our table. His face was flushed already from the booze, a lazy grin quirked across his features. "Tiberia," he said, sounding almost excited, "Indaryn finally managed to talk the bards into playing a few elven dances. What say you to teaching these clumsy humans how to dance?"

I grinned despite myself. "I say," I began, carefully setting down my tankard, "that is not how to ask a noble of House Redoran to dance."

Brynjolf, Vex, and Delvin all laughed, and Niruin looked like he'd been slapped. But then he realized what I meant. "My apologies," he said with an ever-widening grin, sweeping into a shallow, Bosmer bow and proffering a hand. "Care to join me for a dance, _milady?" _He was jokingly accurate with the title.

I snorted. "Why yes, _milord, _I think I may. But only if you can keep up, Brother Elf." I rose from my seat, accepting the proffered hand.

Niruin just laughed. "I think you'll find, Dunmer, you'll have trouble keeping up with _me."_

We two elves made our way out to the dance floor, followed by several curious humans who loitered around the tavern doors and the outside wall. We elves separated the traditional way, the men from the women to begin. I stood back to back with Dinya Balu from the temple as the dance began. My hands were above my head, and I was testing the beat each time I lightly brought my foot down upon the trampled earth. Then the music changed, and suddenly Niruin stood before me, keeping perfect time himself as he sauntered over with the rest of the male Mer of Riften. He settled us into an arrangement similar to Brynjolf's and mine from earlier, but further apart out of respect for my Nord… lover? No, the word was too crass. But there was no better one in this cursed tongue we Men and Mer spoke.

Niruin kept a rapid, fleet rhythm throughout the dance, but this was hardly unexpected. Our feet twisted and pounded, all in time and perfectly synchronized without even the slightest conscious effort. I felt myself laughing despite it all. I'd forgotten how easy it was to dance with a Mer, how fun. There was no reason to hold back while partnered with Niruin, no reason to watch his movements to mirror them; he could keep up just fine.

We now stood separated, our shoulders rocking to the beat as we swayed on the breeze. Niruin's grin only got wider when he realized not only could I keep up, but I could improvise. I felt myself spin out, and back in again, held carefully in place by my Bosmer cousin. And then, all too soon, we heard the final lines of the melody, and I felt myself tipped backwards into a dip, and out of the corner of my eye, I noted Indaryn and Brand-Shei doing the same with their partners.

Silence reigned in the courtyard for a moment, until someone burst into applause and the band struck up a slow Imperial waltz. Niruin brought me back to my feet, and we stepped apart, bowing politely to each other and as we made our way off the floor. "You'd best be getting back to Brynjolf. Can't have him after us, now," he said with a jokingly conspiratorial wink, and I rolled my eyes.

Rejoining our human friends found me in Brynjolf's arms again, and he hissed half-jokingly, half-seriously into my ear, "And what in Oblivion was that?"

I snorted—"Hold on; I can't hear you."—and led us away from the boisterous dance floor a moment. We stood in the alleyway between the meadery and the Bee and Barb, and it wasn't until he folded his arms across chest that I realized he was dead serious.

"What in Oblivion was that?" he asked again, sounding vaguely angry.

I subconsciously mirrored his pose. "Two elves having a bit of homeland fun in a foreign country?" I couldn't figure out what had him so riled up. "Honestly Brynjolf, it was just a dance."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Is _that _what you called it? Seemed more like foreplay to me."

Oh. _Oh. _That's what his problem was. Prudish human. It took all of my willpower not to slam my palm into my forehead. "Brynjolf, these are _my _sacred traditions. That's just the sort of dance you see in the ballrooms of Mournhold—swear to Azura." I held my hands up, palms out and open. "Niruin was even keeping his distance, out of respect for you."

"What distance?" the red-headed Nord scoffed.

This time I did slam a palm into my forehead. "Brynjolf, did you happen to see Brand-Shei and that Dunmer dockworker go by?"

"Once or twice, maybe. I was more occupied with _you _and my Guildbrother."

"Well, _they _were dancing it like lovers. Fast, furious, and up close and personal. Niruin and I… it was just as two friends. I swear to whichever gods you prefer. Go ask any elf here, and they'll tell you the same." I tilted my head fully back to get a good look at him. "You know I'd rather you have been out there."

His brow furrowed as he gathered me in his arms. "Just… please don't do that again."

I cocked an eyebrow. "You can't stop me from being an Elf, Bryn. Trust me, I've tried. Living in a province full of humans can take a lot out of a girl." He sighed and put our heads together, realizing how utterly ridiculous he sounded. And then I realized: "You're jealous, aren't you?"

"Of course not!" he huffed, indignant. "It's perfectly normal for man to want to keep his lass to _himself_."

"Yes you are," I prodded with a smile. "And hey; I still here, aren't I?" I had to stand on tiptoe to kiss him. "Don't worry so much; I'm not going to go running off with another elf. There's a reason I didn't marry one—remember?"

I felt, more than saw, his smirk return, but it was hollow. "What else is wrong?" I asked, pulling our faces apart to get a better look at his.

"It's nothing," he said, running his fingers through his hair like he always did when he was stressed.

"It's something," I argued swiftly, folding my arms across my chest again.

He wasn't the least bit distracted by that, and I realized whatever was wrong was pretty damn enormous. After a lengthy silence, he said in a voice so quiet I nearly missed it, "Today is Raynor's birthday."

"Oh!" No wonder he was so distant. No wonder he was bristling at the thought of someone else he cared about leaving him. "I'm sorry; I had no idea…"

He waved me off. "It isn't your fault. I always get like this when it comes around. I... still miss my brother." His smile crept back across his face, not quite so half-assed as it had been a moment ago. "But you're frozen again, aren't you? Come on, Ty. Let's get you back inside."

And just like that, the old Brynjolf was back. I had to admit, I missed that one, but _humph_. I was hoping he wouldn't notice my shivering. It was cold over here, but at least there weren't so many _people. _I sighed, knowing I couldn't explain my need to avoid people to the face-of-the-Guild Brynjolf, and allowed myself to be led back inside. We settled back into our seats across from Vex and Delvin as though nothing had ever happened.

The night wore on, and all was going well until Maven Black-Briar crashed onto the scene. Normally, the woman herself is bad enough, but this was even worse than normal. For this time when she cast open the doors of the Bee and Barb, she had not only her sycophantic son Hemming in tow, but also three Thalmor.

My heart caught in my throat as she made her way over to Mercer Frey to inquire as to the reason for these festivities. She'd been up at Kynesgrove, you see, waiting for her "esteemed guests"to arrive so they could return to Riften together. Keerava was hissing at these three from across the room, but could hardly kick them out of an open wedding reception.

I squinted at these three hooded, robed Thalmor, and realized I recognized them all:

On the left was Rulindil, Third Emissary of the Thalmor in Skyrim. I'd seen him around the embassy a few times during my incarceration, and knew him to be a powerful mage.

On the right, Ondolemar, head of the Thalmor interests in Markarth and therefore keeping a close eye on the wonderfully, beautifully, mutinous Hammerfell as he went about his duties. He was one of Neva's friends, and I'd seen him around our family home as a child.

And the third, standing at point, glancing about the room like he owned it?

"That's him," I hissed to Brynjolf, cold fear seizing my insides and refusing to let go. "That's Cyrano."


	27. Epicenter

**Somewhere in the world, Ash Ketchum just turned his hat around because SHIT. JUST. GOT. REAL.**

**Also, thanks to my readers, reviewers, and lurkers. You rock :3**

**-)**

I heard his smooth Altmeri accent from all the way across the room. "Delighted to make your acquaintance," he said. "Whatever is the reason for such a boisterous celebration?" he said.

By the bloody Daedra, I hated that man.

"Easy, Tiberia," Vex ordered, putting a careful hand to my arm. "Don't be stupid, sister."

"Everyone knows you hate the Thalmor," Delvin said evenly from across the table. "But you've been drinking, you're tired, and you're not in your right mind to fight."

"That's no ordinary Thalmor," Brynjolf growled. "That's the one she nearly had to marry."

Delvin and Vex's jaws both thumped against their respective chests. "Tiberia!" Tonilia was beside me, now, her voice no more than an urgent whisper. "Do you know who those High Elves are?" she jerked her head at the three Thalmor still talking to Mercer and Maven.

I nodded stiffly, and relayed what I knew of them, my own voice a whisper. "Thalmor. Ondolemar, Rulindil, and Cyrano. High-ranking, very dangerous."

"She was engaged to Cyrano at one point," Vex added, and Tonilia's eyes widened, then her face set into a hard, angry line.

"Do what you have to, sister," she said, clapping me on the shoulder.

"But… your wedding…!" I spluttered, not expecting this reaction in the slightest.

"I'm a Redguard first," she interrupted. "I have the rest of my life with Vekel, but you may not have another chance like this. Do what you have to, sister." She squeezed my hand so tightly the bones in it ground together. "Do it for Stros M'Kai. Do it for all we've lost."

I forgot sometimes, just how many nations the Aldmeri Dominion had dominated. Just how many once-proud nations were reduced to nothing but ashes and puppet leaders. Just how many lives the Thalmor had destroyed, and not just the dead ones. I forgot sometimes, I wasn't the only one with a gut-deep reason to hate them.

"Ty!" Mercer called across the room, breaking our little trust circle. "A word, please?"

I stood stiffly, smoothing my skirts and checking to make sure Mehrunes' Razor was still in my boot. I was cursing my decision to leave my swords in the Cistern as I headed over to his table, now surrounded by Thalmor and Maven Black-Briar. "Aye, Freyr?" No sense in getting the Guildmaster caught. "Need something?"

"Ty," mused Ondolemar, "is a rather odd name for a Mer such as yourself."

"'Tis a shortening," I said, falling back into the elven cadence easily, though my voice sounded hollow to my own ears. "Words stick to the tongues and teeth of these Nords. I've learned it's best to just leave them be."

"A wise woman," Cyrano lauded.

My smile was taut. "Picking your battles is essential to winning a war, I'm afraid. But truly, Freyr, is there something you needed?"

"Maven and I have some business to take care of," the aging Breton rumbled, one eyebrow cocked at my sudden change in cadence. "Would you mind looking after our _friends _for a few moments?" The way he stressed the word made it clear that not only did he have no love of the Thalmor either, but also that I had no choice.

"But of course," I said, my smile still stretched taut across my face as I lowered myself into Mercer's now-vacant chair. "Business is business."

"Glad we're agreed," he said with a nod, and he and Maven slipped out the door chattering away about Guild business—I could tell by the code.

"So Brother Elves," I said, turning back to the table to face them head-on, "what brings you all so far from the warm embrace of Summerset?"

"Business, unfortunately," Rulindil informed me. "The Thalmor have interest in Skyrim, and so we are here."

"Soldiers of the Aldmeri Dominion?" I asked, trying so very hard not to smirk or inject any emotion into my statements. _Gods, _I'd been hanging around humans too much. This used to be easy. "You truly are far from home."

"That we are, Sister Elf," Ondolemar agreed, sounding wistful. "Such superiorly bred Mer as ourselves do not belong in this frozen wasteland, yes?"

"Mmm." I gave a noncommittal response and wished fervently I'd brought my tankard over. Ah, well. Easy remedy. "Oh! Pardon my manners. Keerava!" I turned to call to the Argonian innkeeper, who was beside our table in a moment. "Would you be so kind as to bring us some mead?" I dropped my voice an octave to added, "And put it on Mercer's tab, would you?"

A grin cracked her scaly face. "Of course, elfling."

I turned back to the table, my spine ramrod straight at the discomfort of sitting civilly with a bunch of bloody Altmer, fully ready to continue the polite barrage of questions to keep the spotlight off me, but I was too slow. "So… Ty, was it? What brings a Dunmer to Skyrim?" Rulindil asked, folding his hands at the level of his eyes.

I adopted a saddened expression. "What else but Red Mountain?" Never mind that I wasn't old enough to have experienced the eruption. Or the aftermath, really.

I practically jumped when I felt Ondolemar pat my hand sympathetically. "It saddens all Mer to hear of the Dunmeri plight," he murmured. "The Eight have truly abandoned your people."

I bit back on my molars. "Perhaps. But not the Daedra."

Mercifully, at that moment, Keerava returned with four bottles of Black-Briar Reserve, and I had to grin at that. Might as well kick back at Mercer in style for sticking me in this situation. "To Mer, gentlemen," I said, raising my bottle.

"To Mer!" They agreed, clanking bottles and taking good, long draughts.

When we slammed them back down onto the table, Ondolemar looked as though he'd be sick. "What is this swill?"

I cocked an eyebrow. "This is mead, Brother Elf. The Nords are rather fond of it; you won't find much of anything else around here." I was tense as an alley cat as I sat there, my fingers clenched around the edge of my skirts, where they could easily hide.

"Pity," Ondolemar replied, eying his bottle with an unreadable look.

"You know, I don't believe I ever caught your names," I said, sizing these three up over the lip of my bottle. I could take down Cyrano, easy, and Ondolemar wouldn't be too much hassle, but Rulindil… he could be a major problem. I'd rather not tangle with his particularly lethal brand of magic. So maybe I ought to take him out first…?

I was treated to a barrage of names and titles I already knew, except one interesting one that was very new. "…And I am Cyrano, of House Feliciano, First Emissary of the Thalmor in Cyrodiil," he said, bringing my callused hand to his lips in the Altmer form of greeting. But his brow furrowed when he realized where the calluses sat. "The hands of a swordswoman."

I shrugged, tugging my hand back into my personal bubble. "I am of House Redoran, so naturally, I was taught to fight."

"Which House?" Ondolemar asked, suddenly interested in the conversation.

"Redoran. I do believe I just mentioned that."

Cyrano waved me off. "Not your clan, my good woman, but your House?"

I smiled, sickly-sweet. "My clan _is_ my house."

I felt a hand clap down on my shoulder and I practically jumped out of my seat. But thankfully, it was a familiar accent that wafted down to accompany it: "So lass, when were you going to mention you'd made some new friends, eh?"

"These are friends of Freyr, actually," I said, half-turning to at least attempt to face Brynjolf. "I'm merely the entertainment."

He paused as if considering this, then laughed and said, "Well, you are pretty entertaining."

My brow furrowed in mock-confusion. "I'm unsure if I've just been insulted."

Brynjolf just waggled his eyebrows at me over his flagon, but in his eyes laid the expected confusion at my elven speaking style. "And you'll never know." He then glanced up at the three Thalmor sitting around the table. "Well lads, you'll have to excuse the lady, but the bride has been asking after her."

"Has she?" Rulindil asked, taking a swig from the bottle at his hand. "Pity. It has been lovely to speak with a Mer in this land of Men."

"My apologies, gentlemen," I said rising slowly from my chair and dropping into a formal, Dunmeri curtsey. "But I feel my duty calls. As Thalmor, I'm sure you understand." It was meant to be a question. It didn't come out that way.

"Of course," said Cyrano smoothly. "Duty calls."

It took a vicious internal monologue to get me to move again: _Come on Tiberia, just walk. One foot in front of the other, icebrain. See? There's Tonilia. Keep. Moving. You. Dumbass. _Brynjolf clapped me on the shoulder as I made my way over to Tonilia, and I realized too late that the familiarity was not lost on the Altmer sitting behind us.

I felt the sharp point of a blade press itself against the skin of my neck, just shy of drawing blood. I immediately stepped forward and pivoted, my hands up to protect my face as I whirled around to face my sudden attacker. Cyrano was sizing me up as he sheathed his elven dagger, his light brown eyes narrowing as he said, "What house, Sister Elf, did you say you were from?"

I willed myself to remain impassive. "I didn't."

"Then that settles it, then," His voice was so low, it was more vibration than sound. "Wouldn't you say, _Tiberia?"_

"Cyrano, do you _know _this woman?" Rulindil called from the Thalmor table a few paces back.

"That I do," Cyrano called back, his voice loud and clear, now. He whirled to face me. "This Tiberia Morwyn, fugitive of the elven Houses Redoran and Feliciano." His face was pained. "The love of my life."

I almost hurled.


	28. Shockwaves

**I love the smell of Thu'um in the morning. Smells like **sniff** hell breaking loose.**

**-)**

The Bee and Barb went deathly silent. All eyes were on me and this Altmer who stood too close for comfort.

My face twisted into a wicked smirk, hiding my nausea from a moment ago. "If it took you this long to figure it out, Cyrano, then you're slipping. Besides, I prefer the term renegade._ So _much more badass."

"Tiberia…" Cyrano was shaking his head. "Why did you run? Was it not enough?" He embraced me then, pining my arms to my sides. "Was _I _not enough?"

"Get off me, you son of a bitch!" I screeched, attempting to wriggle out of his grasp. "And you know _damn well _why I ran."

"Afraid I don't, love," he said mournfully, planting a kiss on my forehead. "You know, I'd heard someone kidnapped you from the Embassy—but I never dreamed I'd find you here in Riften."

I couldn't break free, and it was pissing me off. "I was _jailbroken! _Didn't Elenwen bother to mention how well their new dagger rack was working out?"

His—admittedly handsome—countenance broke into a look of utter dismay as he held me at arms length (still careful to pin my arms to my sides, though). "Did they _hurt _you? No, no, no… those were not orders! You were _not_ to be harmed."

If looks could kill, the rest of this evening could have been spent drinking mead and laughing at the dead Altmer in the corner. "Bullshit,"I hissed.

"Oh, Tiberia…" Cyrano was just shaking his head. "When did you get so bitter? Was there not a time when we were happy?"

"There was a time when we were _obedient," _I spat, still trying to break his grip on me. "There's a hell of a difference."

Something wasn't right, here. The Cyrano I knew was cunning as a fox—vicious as one, too. He shouldn't be desolately asking what was wrong with him—he should be dragging me by my hair back to the Summerset Isles. Time to do what I did best—aggravate, annoy, and annihilate.

When he leaned in to kiss me again, I clocked him in the jaw with my forehead. He let go of me with a startled yelp, and I whipped my leg up and around to compound the pain in his jaw. But, I forgot, this was an Altmer and they're all so damn tall. Instead, my whip kick lashed across his chest, which, at least, knocked him back far enough for me to draw Mehrunes' Razor out of my boot.

"Who _are _you?" he spat, massaging his newly bruised jaw. "Because you're sure as hell not _my _Tiberia."

"_First of all," _I growled hefting the dagger to eye level, "I was never yours. _Second of all, _I am the littlest Morwyn. The one born spitting fire." And then things came pouring out in a torrent of pent-up aggression. "So _bloody_ sorry I'm not Neva—and don't give me that look, the whole damn Clan knew you fancied her—but _you _made the mistake of falling for a priestess of Boethiah." He looked visibly wounded at the mention of my sister, so what self-respecting Dovahkiin wouldn't continue? "And then, when _that _didn't work, there was Avalon—wait! Shit! Morag Tong!" I was laughing, now. Evilly, inhumanly, viciously—but Azura damn me, I was laughing. "So the mantle fell to the youngest sister. The one barely old enough to _bleed,_ let alone join a faction. _Perfect." _The bitterness in that last word shocked even myself.

Cyrano just stared at me like he couldn't believe what was coming out of my mouth. "You have things so backwards that quite frankly, I'm ashamed of myself." He sighed. "Neva was a good friend of mine—never more. And even if she weren't consecrated, there are only ever two things on her mind: power, or Daedra. And I hardly know Avalon. It was _you, _Tiberia, that I found fascinating."

Caught like a skeever in a trap. "We'd never met before I got to the Isles."

"That is… I mean to say…" He was scrambling to hold the façade together.

"And you've _hired _the Morag Tong!" I reminded him, the laughter in my voice gone. "_Clearly _you know Avalon."

"I tire of this charade!" Fed up, he grabbed a vicious fistful of my hair, jerking my head up to face him. "_You, woman, are mine!"_

I burst out laughing—that same, inhuman laugh—even though he was close to tearing my hair right out. "Oh, there you are, Cyrano. Was beginning to wonder when you'd bother to show up." I slammed my knee into his gut, and he released me, grunting and spluttering curses all the while.

"You half-Dunmeri _bitch,"_ he growled as I leapt out of his range.

"Glad to see you're up to date. Aren't I breaking enough Altmeri breeding rules to have this _idiotic _idea annulled, yet?" I lunged forward to slash at him with Mehrunes' Razor. Yet he instinctively shied away, and I smirked. "You know this blade." I shook the implement in question to illustrate. "You know what it does."

He drew his sword, and the light glinted up the side like a brief ray of sunlight. "Come quietly and I won't have to harm you."

My brow furrowed as his sword lowered, and I then realized: Brynjolf had his trusty Orcish dagger up against my opponent's neck. "Leave the lass alone, and you may just walk out of here with everything intact," he growled. "But no promises."

"Cyrano Feliciano, I challenge you to single, open combat," I called, waving Brynjolf off. The Nord knew that phrase, at least, and slid back into the shadows, off to go help Delvin and Vex hold down Ondolemar. They'd already knocked out Rulindil.

"Tiberia Morwyn, I accept," he growled back, sheathing his sword to call upon his magicka. "When you lose, you're coming back the Summerset Isles with me."

"I don't do failure," I growled, sheathing the razor for now, and calling upon my newly-healed magicka.

At first we circled each other in the open, table-less portion of the Bee and Barb. The first few moments were like watching two Valenwood jungle cats prowling. He caved first, sending a fireball my way, which I quickly absorbed with a hastily cast ward. I sent several ice spikes his way, but each shot was either absorbed by a ward or slammed uselessly into the wall behind him. _Damn, _I thought. _The boy's pretty fast for a High Elf._

After those first few wary spells, we attacked each other head on. The specialty of House Morwyn is, among other things, hand-to-hand combat laced with magic. Each punch, each kick, each flurry of elbows and knees was augmented by frost, fire, or shock on my end. I was trying to keep Cyrano from drawing his sword, since I was unarmed but for the Razor in my (inconveniently placed) boot. I slammed an especially well-executed stomp kick into his solar plexus, and Cyrano slammed painfully into one of the (blessedly sturdy) pillars.

He peeled himself off the wood with a sound like paper tearing, growled, "Enough games!" and drew his sword.

_Shit; shit; shit; shit, _went the voice in my head. _Run; run; run; run, _went my common sense. But I was tired of running, tied of being forced out of my current home by the man standing across from me. I drew Mehrunes' Razor as he came at me, and braced for impact.

"_Dragonborn!"_

My title forced my head to whip around, only to discover Mercer tossing me his golden, Dwarven sword, hilt first. I caught it and whipped it around just in time to clash with Cyrano's elven blade. The resonance made my arm quiver. _Damn, _Mercer's blade was heavy! Reminded me why I never used Dwarven… wait. "What did you say?" I called to Mercer.

But I never got an answer, being forced back into the duel. We hacked and slashed, thrust and parried, trying to keep up this deadly dance. My usual two-handed smash—where I sent each blade whirling up and over my head to slam into my opponent in rapid succession—was proving difficult to accomplish with a dagger in one hand. He could time his parries just right to knock me off balance, given that I had to lunge forward to make contact with the dagger.

But then, the situation deadlocked. Our swords were grinding together—the Elven and the Dwarven—being held in place by our brute strength. However, given that I'm a woman, I don't have deep reserves of that. Cyrano's simple strength won out in the end, and he broke the stalemate, sending both the Razor and Mercer's sword clattering to the ground. He slammed me up against one of the pillars, pressing the blade against my neck. "Do you yield?" He hissed.

Now, I've my fair share of stupid ideas over the years. My share of brilliant ones, too. Lots of hard decision I've had to make, and lots of easy ones. And this? This was a tough one. I was down to nothing. My magicka was spent, my blades on the ground, and none more hidden on my person because stupid me didn't go to a wedding armed to the teeth. That left me with two weapons—my wits, and the unthinkable. _Sigh—the things I do to survive._

I forced a tremor into my lips, my eyes to water, and sniffed daintily—for all the world, I knew it looked like I was crying. And _this _sniveling messwas the Tiberia he remembered. "Uhm, Tiberia…?" he sheathed his sword, my yield forgotten. "Dear heart, don't cry." He encircled me with both arms again, awkwardly patting my back, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few of my Guildmates—Thrynn, Vekel, and Sapphire—look confused as all hell, but a few more—Brynjolf, Vex, and Tonilia—smirk because they realized I'd never yielded.

I fake-sobbed into his chest, my hands going to the lapels on his Thalmor robes. "There is something I have always wanted to say to you," I sniffed, "since I first realized I could."

I felt his heartbeat quicken. "And what would that be, love?"

In that moment, I made the hardest decision of my life. I drew in a huge breath, raised my head, and Cyrano realized his mistake when my eyes were dry. But it was too late:

"Fus."The first word of power was no more than a whisper.

"_Ro."_ The second word of power was a bit louder than my speaking voice, and the aura of power beneath it grew.

"_DAH!" _The final word of power was a glorious roar.

The force of my shout sent Cyrano flying across the room, and crashing not into, but _through _the double doors that led to the marketplace. Howling with that same inhuman laughter from before, I scooped up the Razor and Mercer's sword and pounded out the doors after that bloody, bloody Altmer.


	29. Aftershock

**HOLY aasdfjkjweqpfj29484! ! ! Not only did this story crack 100 reviews for the last chapter—it CLEARED it. You guys are amazing! :D**

**And here… we… go.**

**-)**

Cyrano was picking himself up off the ground and dusting off his robes as I burst through the remains of the doors to the Bee and Barb. The night was cool, and the moons were shining brightly, casting their light on Nirn with an eerie precision. The Thief and the Warrior battled for dominance above, just as they had the day I was born. I had always wondered what that meant.

"You know, Elenwen mentioned that some ancient Nord power slept within you," Cyrano managed to gasp out, and I realized I'd probably knocked the wind out of him. Pity. A Shout at that range should have ripped his head clean off. "But I can't say I believed her."

"Believe it," I growled, twirling Mercer's sword in a quick arc to loosen my wrist. "You just tasted Thu'um." My mouth was going faster than my head, but I'd already given myself away. Might as well make it clear just whom he was dealing with.

Cyrano glanced about himself and his immediate surroundings, as though looking for something. He then shot me a look. "I do believe you missed."

I rolled my eyes. "Give it a moment; I won't miss twice."

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes—"I don't think so."—and he launched himself back into the fight, his sword up and at the ready.

Mercer's sword and the Razor were up to meet him, almost of their own accord. "You don't _think _at all."

His attacks just came that much faster now that he was pissed. His form was sloppier, but the attacks were rapid-fire. I could have parried, no problem, with two swords, but having just one made things more interesting. I parried, counterattacked, sidestepped, and slashed, trying to get a feel for his style.

It was remarkably similar to Neva's, I realized. A burst of fury would force short, quick, vicious strokes, but then the body would tire and the attacks would become languid and almost lazy. Neva, I knew, did this because she thought she'd already won by the time this weakened period came around. It was why she never beat me when we fenced as children.

The next time I felt him getting lazy, I slammed into his guard with my signature two-handed smash. This time, I was rewarded with a slash across his sickeningly perfect, Altmeri face when his defense broke, courtesy of Mehrunes Dagon. Unfortunately, he didn't drop dead on the spot, but he _did_ splutter and curse me in Daedric. I returned fire easily enough, having a more extensive knowledge of Daedric, and pressed my advantage.

I kept up a vicious fusillade, the likes of which no one—least of all Cyrano—expected from me. Sparring for so many years with Farkas and Vilkas had built up my stamina, keeping power attacks coming, keeping the adrenaline flowing, keeping my head in the fight, and not on other things. My advance became more like what I did when I accidentally stumbled into a bandit camp and had to take on four or five guys twice my size at once. It was concentrated hellfire; I struck out in every direction, never in the same place twice—until I did exactly that. It was almost entirely unpredictable. Cyrano could do little more than parry, let alone counterattack.

Still, I pressed my advantage. The inhuman laughter was back, tearing free of my lips like so many tiny demons. Mercer's Dwarven sword was making my attacks much slower than I would have liked, but the dagger made up for the difference in speed. Again, the dagger slashed at his exposed skin, and _again, _he still stood there, very much alive. With a frustrated battle cry to make my Nord ancestors proud, I slammed another two handed, twirling power attack into Cyrano's guard, and we were both shocked when his pretty little Elven sword snapped in half like brittle kindling, and even worse, Mercer's sword cracked right up the middle before falling gracefully apart.

We locked eyes a moment, his now finally showing true fear, and me just surprised at my own strength. He kicked at my wrist, the surprise making me drop the Razor, and then he took off running like the milk-drinker he was.

I took off right after him. He had a longer stride, but I was no longer merely mortal. I was _dovah. _I caught up in a moment, and jerked on the hood of his Thalmor robe, snapping his head backwards. He scrabbled at his throat as I leapt onto the wall that surrounded the marketplace, miraculously able to keep my balance on the crumbling masonry. I grabbed at his throat with both hands, squeezing just enough to force him to listen, to stop struggling, to come to terms with the fact that he was going to die, and _I _was going to kill him.

"I am the most powerful _Dov_ in Tamriel," I snarled, my voice dangerous and low. I could fell myself walking the line between madness and sanity. "Did you really think I was scaredof _you?"_

"Who _are _you?" he choked out as he scrabbled at my hands, trying to pry them off. "_What _are you?"

"I am who I was meant to be_," _I growled, so low only he could hear, and squeezed just that much harder around his quivering throat. "I quit putting up with people's _shit, _quit apologizing, and started fighting." Problem was, once you started doing that, there was no going back. It made me, quite honestly, kind of a bitch. "And I just have one question for you before I send you to the Void."

I could see the fear in his brown, elven eyes. "And what might that be?"

Ah, there was the elven cadence back. "What took you so long to recognize me?" This one had me genuinely curious. I didn't expect to be able to waltz into Riften all those months ago and be recognized by _no one, _and I doubly didn't expect to sit at the same table as my ex-fiancé and almost get away without being recognized.

"You don't look the same," he coughed out. "When you were younger, it was all elf. Now…" he was spluttering. "…it's mostly Nord. You truly are a bastard…"

I drew my lips back into a snarl my old werewolf self would have been proud of, and called upon my newly-recovered reserves of magicka. "Oblivion take you," I cursed.

I squeezed all the harder around his throat, and cast the spell of sparks without letting go. I felt wayward tendrils of electricity arc past my face, smelled burning flesh and seared hair, but I didn't care. I held on, and the flickering, purple sparks illuminated our faces in a fiendish light. I didn't loosen my grip until every last drop of magicka in my body was spent. Cyrano—well, his body—slid from my grasp and collapsed onto the ground with a disgusting, squelching thud. The air was suddenly too quiet, too still. Vicious thunderheads had swallowed the moons during my duel, leaving us in darkness.

I hopped down off the ledge and felt too many pairs of eyes boring into my back. I pivoted gingerly, and found myself caught in the accusatory glares of the entire Thieves Guild of Riften, not to mention most of the town's inhabitants.

"I knew it." Mercer was the one to break the silence. He was the furthest forward, but even he kept a healthy distance between us. No one wanted to get too close to me—not after the brutality they just witnessed. "Tiberia—or should we call you Morwyn? What are you, girl? Tell us." His eyes were hard. "I want to hear yousay it."

I had nothing left in me but the truth. _"Zu'u Dovahkiin!" I am Dragonborn! _My voice rang clear and true throughout the silent city.

The gathered crowd murmured dangerously at that. "That's impossible," Tonilia scoffed, sounding unconvinced. At what, I couldn't tell. "Everyone knows the Dragonborn is Ulfric Stormcloak's lapdog. What would she be doing in Riften?"

I winced at the (admittedly accurate) description, but I wasn't the one who spoke. "That was shouting, though." Vipir sounded like he was in awe. "It had to be."

"Aye, she's been fooling us since the first day," Mercer growled. "A Stormcloak spy, right under our noses! Trying to break up the Guild."

"Been reading the letters in my trunk, then?" I spat back. "Gotten to the ones where Ulfric's pissed I've quit reporting to him?"

"This is what you were trying to tell me earlier," Brynjolf asked in a quiet voice, sounding utterly shell-shocked, "wasn't it?"

"Yeah," I said, edging backwards as the rain began to fall.

It began as little more than spittle, dotting the landscape and inhabitants alike. A pair of figures detached itself from the group, and I recognized Delvin at point. His dagger was out of its sheath for the first time in my memory. "Come quietly, Little Elf," he said in a forcibly cold voice. I could have sworn I saw tears in his eyes. "And maybe you'll survive this."

"Doubtful!" Vex growled, her own dagger out and her position a few paces behind Delvin. "Traitors die!"

I felt the hard wooden guardrail dig into my back, and knew I had reached the end of the marketplace. Nothing was below me but the canal. _Wait, that's it! _"Step back, Delvin," I ordered, my hands reaching out behind me to rest on the top of the guardrail.

"I don't think so," he growled, but it sounded hollow.

I winced—"I'm sorry about this then."—and with that, flung myself over the railing in a lazy, arcing backflip that clipped the old Breton in the nose, yet again. I heard the crunch even as I plummeted feet-first into the canal.

As the current washed me away, I heard the Guild come out of its stupor. Mercer was cursing my name vehemently, and I realized he must have discovered his broken sword. Brynjolf was barking orders in a voice to tear at his throat and my heart, calling his Guild to arms. And Tonilia was sobbing, probably against Vekel.

_Brilliant, Tiberia. Ruin one of your only friends' wedding day. That's a great way to repay her._

I washed ashore weaponless, shivering, and dressed in these useless fine clothes. I broke out into a run as the rain began to fall in earnest, knowing my Guildmates wouldn't be far behind. For the first time in I don't know _how _long, I wished I hadn't cured myself of the Beast Blood. Running with the wind in my bestial form would have been much preferable to stumbling around in the dark like this. Plus, the wolf thinks about three things—eating, hunting, mating. The growing ache in my heart just wouldn't exist in my beast form. True it would come back once I was an elf again, but at least I wouldn't…

_Wait_. Wait just a damn minute. I felt the _itch. _That familiar, blasted _itch _that accompanied the growth of excessive amounts of hair. And the ache in my chest grew to be twice its size, and then suddenly dropped off. I felt my clothes rip themselves to shreds as my bones bubbled over and my blood boiled. I knew these feelings; I used to have them all the time.

I was suddenly on all fours, and instinctively threw my head back and howled, loosing all my fear, pain, and white-hot fury into the winds. I padded about a moment, trying to take stock of the situation. I was a werewolf again! My beautiful bestial form—the brown-black fur, the red eyes, the elongated teeth and snout, and the lupine grace Aela and I were famous for—was back in all its cursed glory. How in Oblivion was this even possible…?

"My gift to you, Dragonborn."

My head whipped up at the noise. A man stood poised a few paces away, bare-chested and wearing an animal skin kilt of sorts. A great spear was strapped across his back, and instead of the expected, human head, the head of a great elk was attached to his shoulders. The antlers reached up towards the skies, and my brow furrowed as I caught sight of its mouth. How the hell did it talk?

_For me? _My mind loosed the words, having not truly given way to the beast yet.

Hircine just nodded. "Run, Tiberia. _Run. _To your pack. Your family."

-)

I don't know how long I ran, after given the order to. I pounded across Skyrim through the pouring rain, past Kynesgrove and Windhelm, past the far reaches of the Pale and the Rift, past the Throat of the World and the Thieves Guild cairn. It was an easy rhythm I fell into, a familiar one. I don't remember how I got to be on the edges of the Plains of Whiterun, but I do remember the howl I let loose at the moons. It was akin to the first, but angrier, rawer. More pained. My pack instantly came running—Farkas, Vilkas, and Aela—straight out of the underforge.

"That's Morwyn's beast," Vilkas said, his brow furrowed in confusion. "And it was her howl. But how…?"

Aela's wolf form was sniffing mine, merely confirming what Vilkas had just said. "What in Oblivion…?" Farkas began, just as I felt the chance occurring for the second time. The hair receded, my teeth shrank, and my nails retracted of their own accord.

And then I was standing there, naked as my name day. Farkas immediately averted his eyes, his face flushing red just on principle. Aela was rocked back on her haunches, taking stock of my new scars and bruises and probably making mental notes to ask me about some of them. And Vilkas? He didn't break eye contact with me as he whisked the cloak off his shoulders and around mine. I had just yanked the material tighter around me, trying to ward off the chill in both the air and my soul, when I heard the pop of an oblivion portal, and the wind against my face as a caress of sorts. _Lord Hircine? _My mind called out.

_Your _pack_, Dragonborn, _he replied, and if a disembodied voice can sound stern and vaguely reprimanding, then by the Daedra, this one did.


	30. The Nature of the Beast

**Hey y'all :) A big thank you to all my wonderful readers, reviewers, and lurkers. And especially reviewers. You guys rock so hard :)**

**-)**

_My dreams were full of gnashing teeth, werewolves, and my ex-Guildmates brandishing knives. Cyrano's ghost howled along with my wolf, a twisted sort of harmony that made my ancestors ache. Hircine and Azura watched said ancestors lay into me with vicious blows that took my breath away, and yet neither lifted a finger to help. They were too busy holding back Sheogorath and Talos. Coward, Murderer, betrayer, Kinkiller, my ancestors chanted. Coward, Murder, Betrayer, Kinkiller. And then suddenly, their attacks no longer landed. Someone bigger and stronger was shielding me from the onslaught. Someone distinctly… Nordic. _

_And Mirmulnir, the first dragon whose soul I stole… he howled within my very core. His knowledge—Fus—was pulsing painfully within my throat, my lungs. It was the ache that I knew came from disuse of the Thu'um. The build-up of power very well could have killed me if I hadn't used it when I did. "Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin," he wailed, "why?" _

_His chant was akin to my ancestors, and yet so different: Brit, Bruniik, Bronsefahliil. Beautiful, Savage, Nord-Elf. Brit, Bruniik, Bronsefahliil. Brit… _

I snapped myself out of my dreams, yet didn't open my eyes or move a muscle. Opening my eyes would mean facing the day that lay ahead of me, and I wasn't sure I was ready to do that just yet. So instead, I paused to take stock of the situation. Wherever I was, it smelled too clean and was too quiet to be the Cistern. I was dressed in linen underthings—but not the ones that went under my Guild armor. So yesterday had been real. Cyrano was dead. I was on the lam from the Thieves Guild. I was lying in my bed in Jorrvaskr. There was no other explanation. _I wonder if I could just stay here all day. Maybe they'd figure I died…_

No. _Get up you lazy bastard. _Tiberia Morwyn was no coward.

_But it's so comfy…_

Eventually, the decision was made for me. I realized someone was gently running their fingers through my hair, something that person would have to know always calmed me down. (Don't ask me why that works; I've never known.) And then I remembered, no one in Jorrvaskr had the right to do that. Not anymore.

My eyes snapped open, and I sat up, resting my back against the wall and glaring daggers at the insufferable Vilkas Jergenson, who had pulled my desk chair over to the foot of my bed. He smiled placidly back at me, his fingers still twining and tangling themselves in and out of my hair. "What are you doing?" I asked with more of a bite than I'd intended.

"If memory serves," he replied evenly, "calming you down."

I shook my head, trying to dislodge him. Should have known it wouldn't work. "Well, stop it."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Would you rather be a pissed off mess?"

"Get off," I ordered exasperatedly, tugging at his arm.

Mercifully, he withdrew. We sat there in silence a moment before he finally asked, "What happened to you, Morwyn?"

"Tiberia," I corrected hoarsely. "My name is Tiberia. My family name is Morwyn."

"You never mentioned that," he said conversationally, coming forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

I couldn't meet his eyes. "It didn't used to matter."

He gently tilted my chin up, forcing me to look him in the eyes. "What. Happened?" he asked slowly, honest concern in his silvery-gray eyes. "You show up for the first time in months in your _Beast Form,_ and subsequently collapse into your bunk the instant you get back to Jorrvaskr." His expression softened unconsciously, and I knew whatever came next was not going to be good. "Aela heard you crying all night. _Crying, _Little Elf. By the _Nine_, Kodlak had just died last time you did that. Are you…? Is it…? _Damn." _He released my face, continually trying to come up with right question and failing.

I drew in a deep, shuddering breath. My pack deserved an explanation. I owed them at least that much. "Where are Aela and Farkas?" I asked, sidestepping the inevitable question a moment. "They need to hear this."

Vilkas studied his boots. "They went out on a job," he offered. "They're clearing frostbite spiders out of a nearby mine. They won't be back until sundown, at least. Possibly later."

_Damn. _I was trying to avoid having to tell this story solely in Vilkas' presence. We hadn't been together in years, but he still slips into his old habits sometimes. My awakening this morning was proof enough of that. It isn't something he does intentionally; he just hates seeing me in pain. And this story... this one had a lot of pain. _Sweet Meridia, how could it all go so wrong? _

"We should wait for them," I said unevenly, folding myself into the Lotus Position.

Vilkas shot me a look. "You were in your _Beast Form." _He was having trouble wrapping his mind around this fact.

"A gift from Hircine," I murmured. "I don't have the blood anymore. You know that." He'd gone with me to the tomb to cleanse myself, after all.

His brow furrowed, and the movement was so much like Brynjolf it made my heart ache like I was changing forms again. "Why would the Father of Manbeasts be giving you _anything?" _

I felt one single, rebellious tear fling itself from the relative safety of my eyes and onto the uncharted territory that was my face. I couldn't help but admire its tenacity, but hate it just the same. _Morwyns do not cry, _my elf father had told me when I was small. _Morwyns are resistant. Resilient. They do not weep. _Vilkas' hand twitched in its resting place under his chin, and I could tell he wanted to draw me back into his embrace and shield me from the horrors of the world, just like the old days. Stand at my back with a sword and shield, so that the world might never overtake us.

But the old days were gone, now. So far gone, now.

So I scrubbed at the kamikaze tear with the heel of my hand, saying, "Because I blew everything to Oblivion…!" The more upset I get, the worse my language becomes. So the half-rant, half-explanation that finally came pouring out of me wasn't pretty. It wasn't dignified; it wasn't admirable; it most definitely wasn't ladylike. Instead, it was honest; it was honorable; it was thrice-damned fact. I told him everything, starting with my distrust and intense dislike of Ulfric Stormcloak and ending with how they'd found me in my bestial form on the plains of Whiterun. My time with the Guild, recounted in its entirety.

Vilkas remained silent as I spoke, and even after my words were gone and I had nothing left in me but tears I was so desperately trying to hold back, he stayed quiet. "I don't know how you do it," he finally said, his voice low and even—almost soothing. "But no matter what sort of mess you get yourself into, I'll always help you out of it."

Not we_. I._ No Circle plural. No Twin plural. That was just Vilkas talking. The man, not the Harbinger.

I didn't deserve a friend like him. "That's what friends do, I hear."

His smile was pained. "So this… _Brynjolf_ character…" He said the name uneasily, as though he were testing the waters in an unfamiliar lake. "…he's a good man?"

Should have known that would be his first question. "One of the best," I managed to choke out.

Vilkas cocked an eyebrow. "He's a_ thief."_

My eyes narrowed. "And _you_ kill things for a living."

Caught like a Skeever in a Trap, but Vilkas isn't known for his retreating skills. "There's no honor in that, Morwyn."

I felt the fire light in me. "There is more honor among those thieves than there is in the ranks of the Companions!" I spat. "These milk-drinkers have been sitting on their backsides ever since Kodlak joined Ysgramor. You, Farkas, and Aela are the only ones with any backbone anymore!"

"They're scared," Vilkas said quietly. "They need guidance. They _need…" _He paused, already bracing himself for my reaction. "…their Harbinger."

"They have him," I huffed, setting both feet down onto the floor.

"No, Mor—_Tiberia_." Vilkas rose to his full height, and I scarcely came up to his shoulders. "They need a leader. They need _you."_

"Enough of this," I snapped. We'd had this conversation far too many times. "Get out of my room, Vilkas."

He winced, realizing he'd overstepped his boundaries. Again. He bowed his head, a leftover wolf reaction. "Just… think about it, okay?" Then he raised his gaze again. "And you should still have some spare armor in your trunk over there." He jerked a thumb at the chest in the corner of my room. "No one's been in here, except Tilma."

"Good," I spat at him. "I'll be needing armor to get back to Riften."

"_WHAT!?" _For a Nord not blessed with the Thu'um, Vilkas could still shout to make the rafters shake. "YOU'RE NOT GOING BACK THERE!"

"LIKE HELL I AM!" I fired back.

"They'll kill you!" He exclaimed, making an effort to keep his voice down. Arguments between the two of us always devolve into shouting matches eventually.

"Guild Justice," I said in sharp, clipped tones. "I need to face the Guild's Justice."

"You owe them nothing…!" He began.

"I owe them_ everything," _I interrupted. "Just like I owe the Companions."

I could hear a faint growl in the back of his throat. "If you leave Jorrvaskr without a shield-sibling, we're sending Aela after you." Not a petty threat, that.

And with that, he departed, slamming the door shut behind him.

I spared a moment to glare after him before the tears finally overtook my face. I ignored them with the fierce, Morwyn family pride I'd come to expect out of myself, and padded over to the simple wooden chest in the corner. I unlatched the catch and half-hoped I'd find my Guild armor in there.

But of course, it wasn't. There was a spare set of Glass Armor, all moonstone plates and inlaid malachite, folded and piled up in one corner, and my Wolf Armor, all gray-gold steel and pauldrons, folded in the other. I reached for the Glass Armor, purely out of the need for some down-home, Elven comfort. I poured myself into the malachite underthings hiding underneath the actual armor, then pulled the kilt and breastplate on over that. I slid into the gauntlets, then stepped into the boots, tightening the necessary straps and settling into the light armor as though I'd never left it behind.

As I turned to open the door, I caught a glance at myself in the mirror hanging on the back of my door, and that stopped me short. The mirror itself had been a gift from Aela after my ascension to Harbinger, and had maybe been used once or twice after that. But that wasn't what made me pause. Who was this woman staring back at me, unblinkingly, with fiery, crimson eyes? I didn't recognize her.

She seemed painfully thin, the Glass Armor she wore that had once clung to her body now hung loosely from her waifish frame. She carried herself with the kind of confidence that came solely from combat—the easy balance, the taut muscles, the general air that evoked middle fingers raised to the skies. And her face… I could see what Cyrano meant.

Without the air of elven superiority this woman in the mirror formerly possessed, the façade of her face had fallen. Although her features were all painted a lovely blue-gray, they couldn't decide which bloodline they wanted to follow. The jawline was prominently, almost obnoxiously, squared off, and tapered the elven way only slightly. The nose was thicker than any elf's, but narrower than any human's, especially given her Nord blood. The eyes were crimson all over, tilted slightly at either end to create an image that vaguely evoked cat eyes. Not nearly as drastic a slant as an elf should have, but too angular to be Nordic. Even her eyebrows, though arched and elegant as an elf's should be, were thicker, hairier than they should have been. And her black-brown hair, pulled back off her face to exemplify a sharp widow's peak that was common with all Mer, grew thicker and fuller than a typical elf. And the thin braid to once side of her face, the half-ponytail at the crown of her head, and a few more thin, whip-like braids scattered about the rest of her hair, only served to further the Nord image.

All-in-all, the woman was not pretty—despite what certain red-headed Nords who remain nameless said—but she could perhaps be called striking.

I blinked again, trying to reconcile with my reflection. There were tearstains streaking down either side of her face, the aforementioned tears having won the earlier battle. Her eyes, so fierce, so crimson, had a deep, ancient sadness locked within them that no rage could mask. Though she had no weapons at the moment, the air about her made it clear she didn't need them to end a man's life.

"Who am I…?" I asked no one.


	31. Red in the Ledger

**Heads up, y'all. Being the genius that I am, I didn't have the foresight to put this story in the third person, so don't be alarmed that this chapter doesn't sound like Tiberia. It shouldn't; this is Brynjolf's head we're all up in now.**

**And as always, thanks to my readers, reviewers, and lurkers :) You guys are amazing, and so wonderfully supportive.**

**-)**

I sat on the edge of one of the barstools down in the Ragged Flagon, vainly trying to make some sense out of my life. I wasn't coming up with anything too promising. And maybe it was the mead talking, but I listening to Delvin yammer on wasn't helping my mood, either. …Eh, I shouldn't be so hard on the man. He did, after all, take me and Raynor under his wings when our parents took the trip to Sovngarde.

As he continued on with curses and Daedra—_don't think about it, Brynjolf_—and Vex, I examined the dagger in my hands. It was slim, tapered to a wicked point, and a crossguard much wider than the blade—Mehrunes' Razor, she'd called it. It had the slight chance to kill someone instantly with just a scratch, or so the legend goes. A formidable weapon for a formidable woman. How many times had I seen her draw this from her boot? Too many.

"You're not doing yourself any favors, Bryn," Delvin cut swiftly into my thoughts, gesturing to Mehrunes' Razor in my hands.

"This is a _Daedric Artifact_, Delvin. Aren't you even a _little_ curious?"

He shot me a look and shoved me so hard I nearly fell off the barstool (good-naturedly, but still). "That isn't what I was talking about, lad."

I forced my countenance to remain decidedly stony. "I know." The rest of whatever half-baked argument I had was cut off by the arrival of Mercer and Vex.

They were going on about Guild expenses—and why the numbers weren't adding up. "…Vex, half the stores in town haven't paid protection money yet," Mercer growled. "That's what's wrong."

"There's a full _chunk_ of coin that Ti…" Vex was having trouble mentioning the Dunmer, too. "…_She _brought in that went missing! How do you explain _that!?"_

Mercer threw up his hands in exasperation. "Then she stole it back! Gods know the bitch would…"

_No she wouldn't. Tiberia had more honor than that. _I felt a sharp pang in my chest, and it took all my willpower not to physically put a hand there. _Although… I guess I never really knew her at all._ I violently shoved myself away from the bar, despite the fact that Delvin was mid-rant and Vekel had just refilled my tankard. I couldn't take the old Breton's well-meaning-but-still-uncalled-for advice, Vekel's sympathetic gaze, or the argument over Tiberia's honor (or lack thereof) anymore. I needed to kill something, and so far my Guildmates were looking like the best options.

"Brynjolf." Mercer stopped me as I blew by, setting his hand on my shoulder. "Have Bersei Honey-Hand, Haelga, or Keerava paid you for this month yet?"

"No," I said evenly, folding my arms across my chest. "Need me to go… _persuade _them?"

"Couldn't hurt," Vex said with a shrug. "But keep your blade sheathed, Brynjolf." I could feel her glare boring into my back as I padded away.

I took the secret entrance/exit to reach Riften this time around. It was midday, and the sky—for once—was a clear blue, the clouds perfectly white and without a hint of a storm. It felt off, being topside in my Guild Armor, given that I usually was in civilian clothes whenever I ventured into society. But what did I care? The Thieves Guild was coming back. All of Skyrim knew it. _And the main reason was run out of town._

I breathed in a healthy dosage of salt air, trying to clear my head. Tiberia (or Morwyn, or whatever the hell her name was) was in there far too much, for a…Well, I don't know _what _she was. Sure, we'd overreacted the night of Tonilia's wedding, but what else could we _do? _Here was the Dragonborn, sleeping beside us in the Cistern, running jobs like the rest of us _(kissing one of us under the stars, _that obnoxious voice in the back of my head added). And yet no one noticed? And yet, _I _didn't notice? By the bloody Nine, for all my Nord heritage, I couldn't even recognize the thrice-damned _Dragonborn? _

_Well, no. _said that obnoxious voice again. I realized then why I hated him: he was the honest part of my head. _You were too busy thinking of other things._

I bit back on my molars as I kicked open the door to Haelga's bunkhouse. The woman was too busy sweeping the floor to notice me stride in. She was too busy yelling at that poor niece of hers to notice me snatch the statue of Dibella from its place of honor. She was too busy flirting with one of her customers to notice me hop up on her counter, fold myself into the Lotus position, and poise a dagger over Dibella's head.

She was _not_, however, too busy to notice me shout, "Oi! Whore! Eyes front!"

Haelga whipped her head around, her angry glare turning to a look of horror when she realized whom I was, and what I held. "_No!_ Not Lady Dibella!"

"I believe," I growled, "you've got red in my Organization's ledger. And you're _late."_

Her hands shaking, Haelga padded over to her strongbox, unlocked it after a few tries, and counted out her debt. She tossed the coin purse at me, none too carefully, after she'd tied it off. "Here's your gold. I hope you choke on it!"

I hopped off the counter and barked, "Don't be late, next time. Mercer's not so forgiving." I began to walk away.

"The Lady…?" Haelga called pleadingly after me.

I half turned, made a show of dropping the statue to the floor, and then continued on my way. I slammed the doors shut behind me, amidst Haelga's cursing and murmurs of 'what happened to that Nord? He isn't usually so angry.'

Yeah, well. I've never been one for bullshitting people for the sake of being inoffensive.

I continued over to Bersei's pawnshop, fully ready to start a brawl. And lucky for me, I got one. "Brynjolf, lad!" Bersei called as I opened the door. "What can I do for…" His cheery demeanor vanished upon seeing the look on my face. "…you?"

My glare was legendary. Second only to my father's. "You've got red in our ledger." I stood at the counter, now, arms folded across my torso.

Bersei's brow furrowed. "It's not due until the end of the month."

"It _is _the end of the month," I growled, gesturing to the calendar that hung behind his head. It had every day marked up 'til today, the last of Rain's Hand.

Bersei shrugged callously—stupidly. "Well, sorry. You'll have to come back another time for that. I'd try _never."_

I grabbed a fistful of his shirt. "It isn't optional."

"Take your filthy hands off me," Bersei growled back, and I watched one arm draw back in a fist.

I didn't wait for the blow to connect. I ducked under the clumsy punch, then vaulted over the counter, slamming one boot into the pawnbroker's gut and a fist into his jawline. The fight that sprang from there was short, vicious, and not-very-sweet. It ended with Bersei's head slammed up against the counter and my boot in the small of his back. "I'll break it," I threatened lazily, pressing harder on the sensitive vertebrae at the end of spine.

"_No!" _Bersei's supplications were little more than gasps. "There's… the strongbox over there. Take it." He gestured wildly to the bookshelf in the corner. "Take your damn gold, thief."

I released him and he crumpled to the floor, gasping for air. I picked the lock before his very eyes, and sure enough, he had his debt, paid in full, in one of the coin purses inside. I slammed the box shut again, and tipped an imaginary hat toward the pawnbroker. "Good doing business with you," I quipped.

"I hope you choke on it!" He called after me.

I stopped just before the door—"If I should be so lucky."—and slammed it behind me.

The last on the list was Keerava, and I was not looking forward to extorting money out of a pregnant woman. _Yeah, that's it, _said the honest voice in the back of my head sarcastically. _Nothing to do with the fact that she practically adopted Tiberia…_

Just her name was enough to make the stabbing pain in my chest return, but I ignored it, just like I ignored that voice in my head. Ever try to make yourself hate someone? Let me tell you, it isn't easy. I wasn't sure I'd ever manage to truly hate Ty. Just like I never could fully hate Karliah. Neither story involving the Dunmeri women in question made any blasted _sense._

Dimly, I realized as I pushed open the door to the Bee and Barb that Karliah was the reason the Guild went into panic mode over Tiberia. We'd been betrayed by one of our own one before, and Mercer bore the scars to prove. Both traitors (well, Tiberia wasn't one, really) had been Dunmer, both women, both involved with some high-ranked Guild operatives… the similarities between the stories couldn't be coincidence.

Could they?

No, I decided. There's no such thing as coincidence in our line of work. But what did that mean for Ty? I didn't know. And before I could figure it out, a rough Argonian alto cut sharply into my thoughts: "Can I help you with anything, Brynjolf?"

Keerava was standing behind the counter, her arms stubbornly folded and resting absentmindedly on her swollen belly. She knew why I was here; word travels fast in Riften. "You've got red in our ledger, Keerava," I said, making an effort not to growl.

She didn't break eye contact as she pushed a coin purse across the counter. "Take your bloody gold, thief."

I scooped up the purse and shoved it into yet another pocket. I was suddenly exhausted, and wanted no more than to just sink into the floor. "Thank you, ma'am," I said, suddenly the picture of politeness—more akin to the smooth-talking persona I usually projected.

"Oh, and Nord?" She called after me as I began to walk away. "Don't even think of coming back here without that elf in tow!"

And there was that stabbing pain again. I half-turned to face her. "You want your knife back?" I called, miming yanking one out of my chest. "Maybe you could use it on some other poor son of a bitch?"

She was angry with me, and righteously so, but her expression still softened. She padded over to where I stood, frozen in place under the weight on my shoulders. "You don't hate her, do you?" she asked quietly. "Not like the rest of your Guild does."

"How in _Oblivion _could I?" I spat in reply, even the obscenity reminding me of a certain daedra-worshiper who would not _get out_ _of my head._

She patted my shoulder in a vaguely reassuring manner, reminding me of my own mother for a moment. "You are no fool of Mara," she said, her scaly face broken by a sad sort of smile. "And the goddess knows it. You're a _Nord_, boy. Strong. Hard-headed. Obdurate. Don't let this test break you."

I regarded Keerava with a new gaze. "Since when are you a seer?"

She chuckled at some private joke. "I'm not. I merely see the writing on the wall."

Before I could even begin to formulate a reply, the front doors swung open and a trio strangers blew into the pub. I sized up these three possible marks automatically, as my mother had taught me. At point stood a large bear of a man, blond-haired and –bearded, thick and stocky, and wearing thick furs and a steel war axe in his belt. Behind him stood a short, stocky, older man, wearing a bear cap on his head, and a large two-handed battle-axe was slung over his back. And across from him strode a lanky, well-dressed, almost gangly-looking man, armed with nothing but a dagger in his belt. All three were Nords.

Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Eastmarch and Bear of Markarth, I recognized. The other two I had to figure were his general and steward, respectively.

"Are you the owner of this establishment?" Stormcloak asked Keerava in a thick, Northern Skyrim drawl.

"Aye, I'm the innkeeper," said the Argonian carefully, one hand immediately going to rest at the dagger in her belt. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

"We're new in Riften, you see," said the gangly man smoothly, "and were wondering if you could answer a few questions?"

The Argonian regarded them with a carefully calculated stare. "I can try."

"We're looking for my niece, you see," continued Stormcloak. "She's about yay tall." He held up a hand at about the level of his shoulders. "Dark Elf. Brown-black hair, red eyes. Um…" he seemed to struggle to describe her. "..._blue? _Have you seen her?"

Keerava snorted. "You just described about every Dunmer known to the sentient races, you do realize."

"Hellcat, loud-mouthed, worships the daedra, powerful spellsword," the general added with an eye roll directed at his Jarl. "Got a tongue sharp as her blade and the wit to match. Could probably drink _me _under the table if she set her mind to it. And, knowing her, has probably been seen in the company of some rather… _undesirable_ characters."

Holy Mara's gutter-dwelling ghost, they were after Tiberia. I heard Keerava say, "If it's _that _elfyou're looking for, you'd best ask _him."_ She gestured to me, who was stupidly still standing in the room. "They were… rather well-acquainted."

The steward thanked Keerava as Stormcloak strode over to where I was standing. "You there," he said to me, "you heard the description, yes? Have you seen her?"

"The Dragonborn?" I asked with an eyebrow cocked, testing the waters. I watched all three of them to gauge their reactions, and was surprised to find that _they _were surprised.

"…Yes," Stormcloak said after a moment. "The Dragonborn."

"She skipped town about three weeks ago," I said, folding my arms across my chest, trying to process this new information.

Stormcloak seemed pissed. "Did she say where she was headed?"

"No."

"You didn't ask?" the steward seemed incredulous.

"She was my friend, not my _wife," _I spat. "Where she goes is her business." I shrugged. "We all assumed she went back to Windhelm, though if her _Uncle _is down here, I guess not. How is it that a Dunmer has a Nord uncle, anyway?"

"Friend of the family," Stormcloak said, folding his arms across his chest. "Any ideas where she might have gone, then?"

"No," I said carefully, on hand seemingly idly resting on the wedge of the Daedric axe in my belt. "Knowing that woman, she could be anywhere in Tamriel."

All three of them let out exasperated sighs. "Well, thank you for your help…" The steward began, then stopped. "I'm sorry, we never caught your name."

There was something dangerous in my smile as it flashed—"Brynjolf."—and I exited the tavern before any of them could call at me to halt. I broke into an all-out run once I was clear of the marketplace. My thief's sense was buzzing in my skull like an overturned hornet's nest, telling me something was _so very wrong, _here, but not quite knowing what. I paused a moment at the wall surrounding the temple, staring at the new wanted poster in frank disbelief.

A Dark Elf—one Tiberia Morwyn—was staring back at me, an artist's skillful sketch rendering the woman eerily lifelike. The posted bounty was more than mine, Delvin, Mercer, and Vex's _combined. _Thirty-thousand Septims… by the Nine, it was probably cheaper to assassinate an emperor! I ripped the poster off the wall and bolted into the Cistern by means of the secret entrance.

"MERCER!" I shouted before my feet even touched ground. "MUSTER THE GUILD!"

Thankfully, the old Breton didn't question his Second-in-Command, and the entire Guild was assembled in the Ragged Flagon in two minutes flat. "What's wrong, Brynjolf?" Sapphire asked from her vantage point atop the bar.

I was still trying to catch my breath. "Do you all see this?" I asked, holding up the wanted poster.

"So the Dragonborn's a wanted woman," Mercer scoffed. "This isn't news. The entire Thieves Guild is after her, you do realize…?"

I leveled my gaze at my assembled Guildmates. "The bounty was posted by Ulfric Stormcloak. It's thirty-thousand."

_That _got everyone's attention. "The bitch has a higher lifetime bounty than I do!" Vex exclaimed. She sounded personally offended.

"Why would Stormcloak have a bounty on one of his own general's heads?" Vipir asked, stroking his meager beard in thought.

"Because she didn't go back to Windhelm," Delvin said ominously. "And she hasn't reported to him." Dead silence filled the room, and so he continued. "I've been reading those letters she left in her trunk—and she was right. The closer the date is to the present, the angrier Stormcloak's replies become. She must've all but stopped reporting to him by the time Tonilia's wedding rolled around."

"We can't let Stormcloak get to her before we do," Tonilia said firmly. "He'll kill her outright; and she needs to face the Guild's Justice."

"Aye," Niruin agreed, toying with the end of his Dwarven bow, which was slung across his back—and a gift from Tiberia. "We need to find her. But if she didn't go to Windhelm, where would she go? Certainly not back to Morrowind…"

"No, there's nothing there," Delvin agreed. He paused a moment, then said, "But she was a mage. Might have gone to the College of Winterhold."

"It's distant enough. And that Shrine of Azura is nearby. You check both those places," Mercer ordered, and Delvin immediately sprang up out of his seat, already on his way topside. "Where else?"

"She was a bard," Sapphire piped up. "Might have gone to the college in Solitude."

"And you check there," Mercer ordered, and she too sprang into action. "And that Shrine to Meridia up there, as well. Where else?"

"She was a known Forsworn sympathizer," Tonilia offered. "Might have gone to Markarth, or Karthwastern." Mercer nodded to her, and she left as well.

"Her sister was in the Dark Brotherhood," Cynric remembered. "She might have gone to the sanctuary to hide out."

"Thrynn, go with him," Mercer said, and gestured with his chin to the Cistern. "I don't like the idea of one of my operatives dealing with the Brotherhood alone."

"There's that museum to Mehrunes Dagon in Dawnstar, not to mention the old battlement where Vaermina's priests holed up," Vex interjected. "Might have gone there. Commune with Daedra and whatnot." Mercer nodded her out.

"I'll check Morthal," Rune offered. " Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone has the Sight—might have offered her asylum. Not to mention, those marshes are haunted. It'd be easy to get lost in them." And he took off as well.

"I'll double-check Kynesgrove and Windhelm," Niruin offered. "See if she's not hiding in the Gray Quarter or something." And he too left.

"Given that's she's Dragonborn, she may be hiding out with the Greybeards," Vipir said. "I'll check Ivarstead and the Throat of the World."

"She was a Companion," I finally said. "Might have gone to Whiterun."

"You check there, and that's every major city." Mercer nodded his approval. "I'll stay here and hold down the fort. Vekel, just keep tending bar like nothing's wrong."

The barkeep paled. "What happens if they come looking for her down here?"

"We'll re-hire Dirge," I heard Mercer's voice drift back to me as I headed for the Cistern. "He'll keep a lookout since your usual ones will be scattered all over Skyrim."

_We'll find you, Tiberia, _I vowed to myself. _Hopefully, before Stormcloak does._


	32. The Coming Storm

**Aaaaaaannd we're back to Tiberia's POV. **

**You know, I hear it's not uncommon for people to draw characters from fanfics. I couldn't pay anyone, but if someone did, I'd be happy to send them the Epilogue as it stands now, or write something off a prompt :) Just throwing it out there.**

**And as always, thanks to all you readers, lurkers, and reviewers :) **

**Oh, and for the full effect of Farkas' ominous visions, put on the song Davy Jones from the Pirates of the Caribbean Soundtrack. Start it right around when he drops in on Tiberia's internal monologue.**

**-)**

Life settled back into its easy rhythm with the Companions as though I'd never left. I often went hunting with Aela, and she and I re-established our easy-rapport within days. Being the only women in the Circle had forced us together in the first place, but now we were truly friends. She was curious to hear about "that Brynjolf character Vilkas mentioned," and I half wanted to strangle the man for mentioning it. But Aela was just good-naturedly curious, poking and prodding at me like an older sister. Like Avalon, before she left to join the Morag Tong. Not so much Neva. Neva would literally poke and prod at me—with a poisoned arrow, likely.

Life with Vilkas around was never simple, but he and I are some of the only knowledge seekers within the Companions. For that simple reason—and the fact that neither of us could ever sleep and sitting around a fire pit with someone and not saying a word was twelve kinds of awkward—he and I became friends in the first place. He actually hated me when I first joined ranks. But I wore him down eventually, solely because of the challenge he presented. One day he finally threw up his hands—"Alright, you damn elf! Merciful Talos; get off my back!"—and that was that. After that, and still now, it wasn't (isn't) uncommon to see the two of us sitting back-to-back with our noses in tomes as thick as ice on the Sea of Ghosts.

Farkas, though, was even easier to hang around than Aela. Why? He didn't judge… at _all. _Daedra worship? "Okay, whatever. Religion doesn't make much sense to me, anyway." Destruction magic? "Sweet, a spellsword!" Dragonborn? "Awesome! Can I go dragon slaying with you?" Dark Elf joining the Companions? "Hey, Athis has a buddy now!"

You get the picture.

He's a sweetheart, that Farkas Jergenson. But don't let him hear you say that. He'll pummel you into the ground in ten seconds flat. Of course, he'll then dig you out and offer to buy you a pint, but that's just the kind of man he is. I trained pretty much solely with Farkas these days. Vilkas couldn't come at me with a sword drawn in good conscience anymore, and Aela and I have incompatible styles. But Farkas is more than happy to duke it out with me, be it fists, swords, or even the occasional wayward spell or two.

A day in the life of a Companion consisted of rising with the sun (or slightly after), beating up on whelps, beating up on Circle members, beating up on esteemed members that weren't Circle _or_ Whelps, running jobs, and at the end of the day, taking over the Bannered Mare and drinking oneself into Oblivion. Or at least, it used to be into Oblivion, back when the Beast Blood meant no hangovers. Drinking is still one of the only things the Companions do right, according to some, but these days it was more tolerance-building than full-on revelry. And this was good, at least for me. I wasn't sure how long I could hold it together if I ever got good and drunk.

I thought of all this and more as I lay on my back on the sloping roof of Dragonsreach. I'm still not entirely sure the Jarl knows I do this, but I'm pretty sure if he minded, I'd've been asked to stop by now. It's not like the Guards can't see me up here. The moons overhead were staring me down, the stars mocking me, as the Thief was the dominant constellation tonight. It was bitterly cold up here, with no bracer for the wind and the occasional flurry of snow still catching, up here in the atmosphere. But I couldn't go back to the Bannered Mare.

Before I'd left to go fight Alduin, it had been easy to sit with the Circle and drink. Tell stories, and drink. Sing drinking songs, _and drink_. Farkas and Aela would sit on one side of our usual table in the corner, and Vilkas and I took the other. We'd stay until someone puked, then haul their drunken ass back to Jorrvaskr, fall into our beds, and wake up the next morning for more of the same.

We'd gone there earlier in the evening (or rather, Vilkas had dragged me along when the other three went), and I'd stayed there for as long as I could stand it. Getting drunk was probably the least-yet-most appealing thing I could do right now. So I made the wise decision to stay away from alcohol, left to 'go get some air' and conveniently never went back. Instead, I climbed up here, to its silence and solitude. I kept an eye on the moons, marking the hours until I could slip into Jorrvaskr unnoticed. Breezehome was basically Lydia's for the moment and besides, I didn't want to answer anyone's questions right now. That was why I was sitting on the freaking roof of the Jarl's palace in the first place.

"Thought I'd find you up here," came a voice from just under me, interrupting my thoughts.

I glanced down, only to find myself staring down Farkas as he climbed hand-over-hand up to the roof. He plunked down next to me a moment later, not the least bit winded. "Farkas, what are you doing here?" I asked, none too politically.

He shrugged, unoffended. "What are_ you _doing here?"

I ignored the question. "How'd you even _get_ uphere, anyway? I have to Shout…"

"Not easily," he assured me with a laugh, "and getting down will be interesting, but you're worth it, Morwyn." He wasn't being manipulative; he meant it. "Now seriously. What are you doing up here?"

I sighed, letting a misty breath off to the heavens. A plea to Azura, perhaps, or an offering to Hermaeus Mora. "Just thinking."

"About?" he prodded.

I sighed again, letting off another plume of icy breath. "Farkas, I can't stand being here. I'm sick of running from my problems; I need to face the Guild."

Vilkas had told him the story. I knew that for fact. "Honestly Morwyn, I think you're thinking too much," said the honest Twin. "You're alive. You're back with your pack, where you belong. You've got no small amount of jobs you can go off on, and a warm hearth and good people to come back to when you're tired. What's the problem?"

I sighed. "I just… I ran, Farkas."

"They chased you off, by the sound of it," he objected.

I sat up now, resting my elbows on my knees, and leveling my gaze at Farkas. "These people took me in, made me one of their own—made me _family. _And how do I repay them? Secrets and lies. And now Ulfric Stormcloak has a bounty on my head worth more than Breezehome, and I'm practically defenseless…"

"You think Whiterun will give you up?" Farkas scoffed at the very thought. "You're a Companion. _We're_ not letting you go without a gory fight, Shield-Sister. And the whole town loves you—you're our _Thane, _for Talos' sake! Not even the Battle-Borns will give you up, not to Ulfric."

I was silent for the longest time, and Farkas just sat by me patiently. But he broke the silence eventually. "There's a storm coming," he said ominously as the wind kicked up and whipped our unbraided hair about our faces. "I don't know when, but I do know that when it breaks, we'll _all _have a lot to answer for."

I regarded him with an entirely new gaze. "You have the Sight?"

"I guess," he said with a shrug. "I see things sometimes. Just bits and pieces, though. Never full stories."

Now this was interesting. And not my problems, which was also a lovely change of pace. "What have you seen?"

"There's one that keeps coming back," he admitted, staring down at his boots. "It's of you, Morwyn."

My breath caught. "Me?"

The Twin with the Strength of Ysgramor nodded. "You're standing in the middle of a battlefield, bruised and bloody and tired. You're in the eye of a storm, and there are two people with you. One of them's Vilkas, but the other is this red-headed Nord I've never seen before in my life."

"Brynjolf…" I murmured.

Farkas shrugged. "If you say so. You're standing there with my brother and your thief friend, and then…" His brow furrowed. "I don't know how to explain it. Sometimes just wells up from inside you—it looks sort of like Restoration magic, but it's all different colors and smells like ashes."

"A dragon's soul," I said, filling in the blanks for him.

"Mmm." He seemed relieved to have names for these things he didn't understand. "A dragon's soul wells up from inside you and then…" he blinked, as though coming out of a trance. "…Nothing."

"That isn't the end," I said in my most commanding Stormcloak officer/Harbinger of the Companions voice.

Farkas' voice was quiet as the wind about us. "Someone stabs you. Right through the ribcage. You collapse. There's blood everywhere. You die. And that soul is just hanging there, hovering there, shrieking and spinning and…" He cut himself off, squeezing his eyes shut as though that would ward of the memory.

"It's alright, Farkas," I said, though my mind was spinning. If he had the Sight, and the Sight said I died… Holy Azura, I didn't want to think about it. "The Sight has failed seers before."

"For your sake, I hope it does." And again, he wasn't being manipulative, just honest.

We sat there in silence for the longest time, watching the stars and the snow. But I had to know, "Farkas, if I go to Riften, would you be willing to keep Aela off my scent?"

For the longest time, he made no move to indicate that he'd heard me, and I almost asked a second time, but then he nodded. Slowly, as though still debating, but then in all seriousness. "Go to Riften, if it will make your heart whole again," he said quietly. "I'll stop Aela from going after you. Don't ask me how; I'll think of something. But Vilkas…" He sighed, his own breath going up to the heavens. "…Vilkas doesn't want you to go." He sounded like a child, making the world so simple, and for that I envied him.

"Of course he doesn't," I tutted. "He wants me to stay here, and be Harbinger. He's said as much since the first moment I handed off the title to him."

"No, no. That's not why." Farkas shook his head, sending his hair flying every which way. "Don't you see it, Morwyn? How he still looks at you? Why he threatened to send Aela after you?" I shook my head slowly, and Farkas snorted. "And they call _me _the stupid one."

"Hey now!" I interrupted. "That was uncalled for!"

Farkas snorted, but then was quiet. "He loves you, Morwyn. Always has. And he's terrified that the next time you walk out of Jorrvaskr will be the last time he ever sees you."

"You're lying," I said automatically, but I realized everything Farkas was saying was true. There was no other explanation.

Farkas shot me a look. "You know me, Morwyn. I don't lie, and especially not to Circle members. Vilkas respects you enough not to press the issue but…" Farkas looked down at his boots, at the drop below us. "…it's breaking his heart all over again, having you here."

I cocked an eyebrow, despite the rather serious nature of this conversation. "Then why does he want me to _stay?"_

"Because," Farkas said, and I could tell the next words out of his mouth were from his brother: "Having you here is better than never seeing you at all."

"If he doesn't see me, he could heal," I said quietly.

Farkas just shook his head. "I don't think you quite understand what's going on in his head, Little Elf."

I bristled at that. "Oh, and you do?"

"I'm his twin. That what I _do." _Farkas' smile was sad. "You say you need to go back to Riften, to your Guild, to face their justice. And we know that's true, _he _knows that true. But what my brother hears is, you need to get back _to Brynjolf."_

"What, am I not supposed to move on either?" I asked, irritated.

Farkas held up both his hands, palms out. "I didn't say that."

I hung my head, and the reply I gave was slightly muffled. "Are you trying to make me feel like shit even more than I already do?"

"No! Gods, I'm bad at this!" Farkas was berating himself, and I hated to hear that. "I'm just trying to make you _understand."_

"And why doesn't Vilkas just tell me this himself?"

"He's too proud, and he respects you too much," came the swift reply. "And hey, don't get angry with me. Personally, I agree with you on the whole issue." His voice dropped an octave. "Just don't let my brother hear that. He'll flay me alive."

"You agree with _me?" _I asked, incredulous.

Farkas nodded. "You and Vilkas… your personalities mesh until they just _don't."_ It was as apt a description as any. "And those _don'ts _are pretty huge. It wouldn't have worked."

"If I'm right," I said quietly, "then why do I feel like the bad guy?"

"Because he's still your friend," Farkas said simply, "and friends don't like seeing each other in pain. Especially when there's nothing to be done about it."

I buried my head in my forearms, and felt Farkas set a warm hand on my shoulder. "If you're going," he said quietly, "you'd best leave when he's off on a job."

"Without saying goodbye…" I realized.

Farkas sighed. "It's not going to be pretty, no matter how you look at it. And Morwyn?"

"Yeah?"

"Do him a favor, and don't come back next time."


	33. The Hand of Fate

**Hey all you readers, reviewers, and lurkers :) Here, have a chapter**

-)

My rooftop conversation with Farkas bounced around in my head for days afterwards. He was right, and I knew it. This severance wasn't going to be pretty. Aela would forgive me; Farkas clearly would forgive me; but Vilkas? I'd already broken his heart once. I _really_ didn't want to do it again. He was still one of my good friends, one of my pack. But I saw no other way around it. I had been back at Jorrvaskr for around three weeks, now. Rain's Hand had already come and gone—my time here was almost just a tease. I was only home long enough to be missed when I disappeared again.

That fateful morning that all hell broke loose, I was awoken by someone pounding on the door and shouting, "Morwyn! Get into your Wolf Armor and meet the Circle outside!" The accent was familiar; it had to be Athis. "There are Whelps to beat up!"

"Best part of being a Companion!" I called back, whipping the covers off me and setting about looking for the offending armor.

I heard Athis' laugh echo down the hall as I scrambled about my room, trying to piece together the Circle's uniform. Once I was finally fully dressed in the traditional armor of the Companions—the infamous Armor of the Wolf—and had a skyforge steel sword strapped to either hip, I made my way out of Jorrvaskr and into the weak, winter sunlight. Farkas, Vilkas, and Aela—all dressed in the same armor as me—already stood in the courtyard, sizing up a few whelps that wished to test their mettle. Farkas had his arms folded across his broad chest, and was silently surveying the scene. Aela was testing the winds with her wolf-enhanced senses, and she was clearly itching to get out of this cumbersome armor and back into her usual Ancient Nord armor. And Vilkas kept tapping the flat of his bracer with the opposite hand—a nervous habit of his.

"…We aren't running a social club," Vilkas barked. "There is no 'joining.' Either you've got a fire in your belly and an arm strong enough, or you don't. It's that simple." He, his twin, and Aela all glanced towards the door when they heard me open it, and I saw Vilkas' expression soften for just a moment before resuming his usual stony countenance. "And there's the Harbinger now."

Blasted Nord. Forcing my hand. "Aye!" I called, assuming my position between Farkas and Aela. I folded my arms across my chest as I sized up these few hopefuls. I snorted. "Not much to work with."

And true, there wasn't. There was one young Nord boy, barely out of his parents' home, I'd wager. Beside him was a Khajiit woman who kept anxiously running her furry fingers over her Moon Amulet. And rounding out the group was a skinny Imperial who looked like he hadn't had a decent meal in weeks.

"I heard it said the Harbinger was a man," the Nord boy said with a furrowed brow.

I was proud of Vilkas for not rolling his eyes at that. "I'm not Harbinger, I'm Harbinger Regent," Vilkas explained for the umpteenth time since he'd assumed the position.

"Because our actual Harbinger here," Aela continued, nudging me with an elbow, "has too many duties that keep her from Jorrvaskr for extended amounts of time to fully _act_ asHarbinger."

"So, Vilkas runs the day-to-day," Farkas finished. "And Morwyn comes home every so often to check on things and make executive decisions."

"So why didn't she just hand off the full title?" the Imperial asked.

I felt my face flatten out. "Because I'd have to be dead."

The Imperial began studying his iron boots in earnest. "Oh."

"If there are no more questions…" I began swiftly.

But I was interrupted by a voice I never through I'd hear among the Companions: "Actually lass, there's just one."

I saw him coming from a mile away, but I didn't put up an arm (or two) to block it, roll away from the punch, or in any way try to avoid it. His fist connected with my jawline and the force sent me flying backwards, knocking me into Vilkas. Aela and Farkas had already drawn their weapons—she her hunting bow, he his greatsword.

"Sweet Meridia, stand down!"I called, rubbing the side of my jaw that no doubt would have a bruise by evening. "I deserved that."

"You're damn right you did!" snapped my assailant.

Aela and Farkas unhappily sheathed their weapons as Vilkas set me back up on my feet, his hands lingering for longer than technically necessary. And then _he _stood before me, all leather armor and fiery hair, glaring at me something fierce. And I glared back, the Wolf Armor bringing back the ghost of my werewolf ferocity. We stood chest-to-chest in a vicious battle of wills. But then something between us broke, and I felt myself crushed in a great bear hug that made a few of the vertebrae in my back crack.

"Augh, Tiberia, we thought we'd lost you!" he exclaimed, setting me back down on my feet again. "The Guild's been in an uproar ever since Stormcloak set that bounty on your head."

"I kept trying to get back," I assured him. "But my pack… they didn't want me back in Riften."

"Morwyn?" Vilkas called confusedly. "Who is this?"

"Oh, right." I smacked myself in the forehead. "Farkas, Vilkas, Aela, this is Brynjolf Ceylonson, Second in Command of the Riften Thieves Guild." I clapped Bryn on the shoulder, as if there was any doubt whom I could be referring to. "Brynjolf, these are the Wolf Twins, Farkas and Vilkas Jergenson, and the infamous Aela the Huntress. Collectively, they are known as the inner Circle of the Companions." I gestured to each of them separately, particularly the Twins.

"I suppose we should say it's nice to meet you or something," Aela said, breaking the silence that would surely settle over us. "But seeing as you're going to be trying to take our Harbinger, it's really not."

"Harbinger of the Companions?" Brynjolf turned to me with an eyebrow in his hairline. "You failed to mention that, lass."

I felt my face flush. "I shouldn't even _be _Harbinger. Kodlak…"

"Knew what he was doing," Vilkas finished swiftly. "Look… Brynjolf, was it? Morwyn's not going anywhere without a fight."

"Hush now," I ordered. "I need to go to Riften, face the Justice of the Guild. I've been saying that since I _got _here."

"That is true," Aela confirmed, rocking to a hip.

"You'll give yourself up?" Brynjolf was incredulous. "Who are you, and what have you done with Tiberia?"

From across the way, Farkas' brow furrowed. "That's _Morwyn."_

Brynjolf glanced to him exasperatedly. "It's Tiberia, _or _Morwyn. She's an elf; she's got two names."

Farkas snorted. "What the hell is the point of that?"

Brynjolf actually laughed at that. "I have _no _idea."

I rolled my eyes. "There's a family name—in my case, Morwyn—and a given name—in my case, Tiberia. It's not that difficult! Blasted Nords…"

Brynjolf was shaking his head as he pressed a knapsack into my arms. "Your Guild Armor's in there. Put it on, and let's go. Can't have you showing up to a Thieves Guild trial in Wolf Armor."

"_My _Guild Armor?" I asked with an eyebrow raised. At Brynjolf's nod, I added, "You knew I'd be here?"

Brynjolf just gave me an exasperated look. "I _know_ you, Tiberia."

I heard Vilkas, intrigued despite himself, ask, "You recognize our armor?" as I made my way back inside and down to my room.

Once back inside, I slid out of my Wolf Armor, and stood there in my underthings as I dumped the contents of the knapsack onto my bed. Out tumbled the entirety of my Guild Amor—boots, bracers, cuirass, and underthings—but also something else. A small, leather-bound book fell into the pile of clothing, looking for all the world as though it belonged there. Curious, I set the pack aside, and picked up the book. I flipped it open to a random page, and realized what this was.

He wasn't so mundane as to write in it. No, Brynjolf sketched whatever was in his head out onto these pages. I was immediately embarrassed for trespassing on such a personal level and would have snapped the book shut right then, but the sketch sitting in my hands transfixed me. I was looking at a charcoal vision of myself, as Brynjolf saw me. This wasn't anything close to the terrifying visage I saw in the mirror. This was someone who exemplified the best of the elves—a fierce, proud, otherworldly sort of beauty—and the Nords—a certain strength of feature, spirit, and purpose. In one sketch her head was thrown back in howling laughter, the mirth lighting up her features and making her look mostly elf. In another, she was snarling and glaring straight out from the page, making her seem more human.

I snapped the book shut, unable to withstand it any longer. Whatever I'd once had with Brynjolf had been shot to Oblivion; I didn't feel the need to dwell on it any longer than necessary. I shoved the journal back into the knapsack and focused on the armor. On went the brown-black leggings and undershirt, and familiar as old friends. Over that went the cuirass, snug in all the right places after I'd tugged all the buckles closed. I looped the two bands with the pockets on them over my cuirass, tightening them back to their accustomed length. I balanced precariously on my bed to close all the buckles on my boots, then slid a steel dagger into the side of the left, given the aching absence of Mehrunes' Razor. I slipped my hands into the bracers, pulling them up to their accustomed heights, then threw the hood up and over my head.

I caught a wayward glance at myself in the mirror, and for a moment, I could almost see what Brynjolf saw. But I blinked, and it was gone. My face was already warpainted for the day (speak no evil), so after buckling on my two skyforge steel swords, I pounded back up the stairs. I pushed open the door to the courtyard for the second time that day, fully unprepared for the reaction I'd receive.

Brynjolf, clearly at odds with Vilkas, saw me, and his familiar, good-natured smirk fell across his face. But the entire Circle (none of which had ever seen me in anything less than heavy armor, unless you counted werewolf transformations) couldn't help but gawk. The Wolf Twins both jokingly wolf-whistled as I came down the stairs (though in retrospect, Vilkas probably wasn't joking). Aela just smirked and said, "So there _was _a woman under all that metal."

I smacked both Twins upside the head as I passed them, sent Aela a one-finger message that needed no translation, and halted just before Bryn. But before either of us could say anything, the earth shook beneath us and the ravens roosting on the top of Jorrvaskr took to the skies as a single word permeated the air, laced with Thu'um—"_DOVAHKIIN!"_

We all straightened up after a moment. "Did you all hear that?" I asked, my gaze jumping from Nord to Nord.

Every last one of them nodded. "The Greybeards are summoning you…" Aela sounded vaguely awestruck.

"Then I go to the Throat of the World," I said firmly, pressing the pack into Bryn's hands and rolling my shoulders back in preparation for dealing with the Greybeards.

"Um, Ty? You've got a Guild to answer to," Brynjolf reminded me.

"Skyrim comes first."

A born-and-bred Son of Snow like Brynjolf couldn't argue with that logic. I turned to face the Circle, knowing somewhere in my heart-of-hearts that this would be the last time I would see them all here, at Jorrvaskr. Farkas and I gripped forearms—the warrior's version of a hug—and I muttered to him, "My will is in Breezehome. Lydia knows where. If I die… you know what to do."

He nodded solemnly. "Azura guide you."

I smiled at his thoughtfulness (most Nords don't give Daedric blessings, even to daedra worshippers), and turned to Aela. She enveloped me in a hug, which frankly, _shocked _me. I think she was sensing what I was. I heard her voice from somewhere above my ear, "So that's Brynjolf, hmm?" She let go, and I nodded, almost imperceptibly. She was grinning as she added, "Good choice, Shield-Sister."

Lastly, Vilkas. I turned to him, held out an arm to grasp forearms as I did with Farkas, but felt myself crushed in a bruising hug. "Don't make me come after you, Morwyn," he half-warned, half-pleaded from somewhere near my ear.

He released me reluctantly, and I suddenly knew Farkas was right. I couldn't come back here. Vilkas just couldn't deal with it anymore. And I wasn't so coldhearted as to put my own safety and happiness over another's. Just as I turned to face Brynjolf, the earth shook a second time, and those poor birds atop Jorrvaskr flew away for good this time.

A single, Thu'um-laced word, broken into three, awkward syllables in order to be shouted: "_STORMCLOAK!"_


	34. Arm Yourself, Destiny Calls

**I was trying to figure out how to say 'Hey all you readers, reviewers, and lurkers!' in Spanish, but realized I didn't have the words for that, so you'll just have to make do with the English.**

**And a to those of you with PM disabled:**

**Kayla: Haha I'm sorry to hear that, but you may want to invest in some fake nails—things are only getting more intense from here :3**

**Guest: Thank you :) I'm glad you enjoy the story**

**Onward!**

**-) **

Brynjolf didn't say a damn thing as we made our way out of Whiterun, out onto the plains of the hold, and set out on the winding road around the Throat of the World. The silence had been broken briefly when we'd procured horses from the stables (legally, for once, since Bryn had one of the Guild's and mine was already boarded there), but other than that, it hadn't moved from its spot over our heads. It was beginning to grate on my nerves, but how would I even begin a conversation? I had no idea. So instead, the world was silent, save for the clip clopping of our horses' hooves and the occasional animal call.

Until finally, after we'd been on the road for several agonizingly silent hours, he said, "I just don't understand it, Tiberia."

His thick brogue had never sounded so sweet. "Don't understand what, Brynjolf?"

We were riding side-by-side, given that the roads were deserted on this dreary, rainy day. "How you can even _begin _to rationalize running away, spying on the Guild…" There was going to be a tail end of that sentence; his cadence cut off awkwardly.

I let out a sigh, and this time there was no frost to offer up to the Daedra. "Do you want the story, or the answer?"

He gestured loosely to the rolling landscape around us. "We've got the time. Ivarstead's hours away. It'll be past midnight when we finally roll into town." He paused. "If we're lucky," he added as afterthought.

I couldn't stop the smile that overtook my features. "So you _are _heading towards the Throat of the World."

He shot me a look. "I can't, in good conscience, _ignore _the Greybeards and still call myself a Son of Skyrim."

I sighed."The Dragonborn joined the Stormcloaks after she killed Alduin," I said, keeping my distance from my title for the moment. "Why? Because Skyrim was her home as much as any Nord. Because people deserve to rule themselves. Because she just wanted to _destroy_ things until the voices of those dragons she killed finally _shut up!" _I could hear them, even now, howling and shrieking, calling out for release in the glorious Thu'um.

"But she underestimated _just _how racist Ulfric Stormcloak is." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Brynjolf wince already. "First they send her to Serpentstone Isle, in the middle of the Sea of Ghosts, to kill an Ice Wraith—hardly a rare creature—and prove her worth. Then they send her on pointless errands, more akin to her Companion years. Protecting citizens, guarding caravans, that sort of thing. And they were always Nords she looked after. No elves, no Khajiits or Bretons—only Nords. And eventually, even those little jobs dropped off. She was little more than a figurehead for the cause, cooling her heels in Windhelm. And she was _bored._

"So then one day, Ulfric comes to her, and says he has a job for her. One that she, specifically, needs to do. So she jumped at the chance to get out of his godsforsaken city, away from the Gray Quarter and those Brother and Sister Dark Elves who wander the streets with no hope in their eyes…"

"And that was the Guild," Brynjolf finished.

I nodded. "That was the Guild mission. But I wasn't supposed to be gone more than a month."

He blinked, visibly recoiling from that response. "What changed?"

I shrugged. "I like you people." I offered a weak smile. "I couldn't break up the family you'd created for yourselves. And after you all brought me into it… that was it. I wasn't going to sell out the Thieves Guild to a racist, infantile bastard. And so I lied. I made up missions, jobs, arrested members. I all but stopped reporting to Ulfric by the time Tonilia's wedding rolled around…"

"He came looking for you," Brynjolf informed me. "Last week, Stormcloak was in Riften, asking after you. Put up those wanted posters. By Mara's mercy, you weren't in town. But now…"

I snorted. "Now he's got a bounty on my head worth more than my _house!" _

"Lass, I think you could assassinate an _emperor_ with that bounty." Brynjolf chortled. "Vex was personally offended that yours was higher than hers."

I snorted. "That sounds like Vex."

But then his expression darkened, his eyes becoming stormy as the sky above. "Some of the Guild want you dead, you know. Others of us decided you're just not worth the hassle, and should be chucked out into the Ratway on your arse, done and done." I paled at that, but he still continued. "Still others of us realized—shit, you got played by a politician. Happens to the best of us." He was trying to be callous, trying to brush it off, but his knuckles were white around the reins. And he sounded like he was in true pain when he spoke again. "But why did you _run?"_

"I was run _out_ of town," I reminded him.

"Delvin wasn't going to hurt you! And Vex…" He shook his head, sending his hair flying everywhere. "…she's all bark, you know that! By the damned Nine, Tonilia and I were beside ourselves, trying to piece together what had just happened. Even _Mercer _admitted we overreacted, at least a bit, because _he _still remembers Karliah!" His shoulders were shaking, trying to regulate his breathing and still rant at the same time. "How could you be so _selfish _as to...?!"

"_Do not accuse me of selfishness!" _I roared over him. He was so shocked he shut up, and that's when I knew things were bad. "Do you have _any idea _what's it's like to risk your life on a daily basis for a country full of people that spit on you when you walk by?! Or to be harassed, insulted, groped, assaulted, persecuted, looked down upon, and tormented because your skin is the wrong color and your ears are pointed!? Or for the _good ol' boys_ down at the Pub to not only refuse to serve you, but then proposition and pester until you want to shout them into Oblivion?! And you know you could do it, too. Just three little words." My jaw set. "No. You don't know about any of that _bullshit. _You're a Nord, living in the fatherland. Good for you; yours is still_ inhabitable!"_

I spurred my horse forward, leaving Brynjolf far behind me. Or at least, I figured I had, until I heard him say, rather angrily, "The Dovahkiin did it for the glory, then? And now she's pissed there is none."

I whipped my head around to face him, the fire in my heart burning even brighter, now that I'd been with the Companions a while. "The _Dovahkiin_ accepted her destiny because it was the honorable thing to do. Not for the admiration, the glory, the place in Sovngarde and at the Jarls' tables—none of that mattered." I was trying to keep from shouting; the Thu'um has a habit of lacing itself into my actual words. "The motto of House Morwyn is 'Arm yourself. No one will fight your battles except you.' How could she not take up arms for the country that took her in after she'd lost everything?" I shook my head. "But she was young, and stupid, and coming out of years of training under the Companions. Battlefield glory, honor, a warrior's death—that was all she wanted out of life, all she needed. Slaying dragons and storming Sovngarde…" I shrugged. "Sounded like fun, to me. Er, her."

Brynjolf was just shaking his head. "You save the world from utter destruction, and the people _spit _on you…"

I shrugged, trying to brush off these sacrifices as nothing. To me, they actually _were_ nothing. I'd been raised to fight for my beliefs, and becoming Dragonborn just solidified new ones. "Nords, I've found, are the only thing colder than the land they live in." I felt myself smile despite myself. "That is, until they get to know you."

He nodded; this much was true. We receded into silence for a while, but this one wasn't uncomfortable or stifling like the first. This was more the companionable, amicable silence we used to have while sitting over drinks in the Bee and Barb. Funny, how long ago that seemed to me, now.

"So who's Karliah?" I finally asked. "That's several times now, you've mentioned her."

Brynjolf let out a worn breath. "She was a Dunmer who used to run with the Thieves Guild. She, Mercer Frey, and the old Guildmaster Gallus Desidenius were an unstoppable Triumvirate. She and Gallus were _well acquainted_, and she and Mercer were master partners-in-crime. Made the Guild a lot of gold doing what she did best.

"But you remember New Life, that scar Mercer showed?" At my nod, he continued. "The three of them went to clear out some old Nord ruins, north of Windhelm. But when they got there… Karliah killed Gallus, dumped his body in the ruins, and went after Mercer. Somehow he managed to survive, but Karliah got away. And we never found Gallus' body, either. Mercer couldn't face those ruins, and no one else knew where the body was." He sighed. "That was twenty-five years ago."

My brow furrowed. "You were _three, _then. How would you even…?"

"Delvin's told me the story," Brynjolf interrupted. "But trouble is, I don't think it makes any thrice-damned _sense! _Why would Karliah kill _Gallus, _if they were as smitten as Mercer says? And I'd met the woman… she didn't have a vindictive bone in her body. Why kill the Guildmaster, and go after her partner?"

"You were _three," _I reminded him. "How would you know a person's worth?"

Brynjolf rolled his eyes. "She and Mercer used to lay over in my family's house in Falkreath sometimes. So I knew her as Aunt Karliah. And maybe that's why I'm not as weirded out by elves like some other Nords I could name…" He shrugged.

"And that's your basis of judgment?"

"Riddle me this," he said, and immediately my ears pricked up. "A child, two or three years old, wakes up in terror from some nightmare. His parents are out running one of their last jobs for the Thieves Guild, and Mercer and Karliah are looking after their old Guildmates' kids. He wakes up, and who is kneeling beside his bedroll but Karliah herself. She picks him up, assures him he's safe, and goes back to talking with Mercer, still holding that Nord child. He falls asleep there, and even then, she doesn't set him down." He turned to face me now. "Does that sound like a killer to you?"

"No, but…" I was trying to come up with a rebuttal. He was right, though; Mercer's story didn't make any sense.

The journey was uneventful until we reached the Rift. We couldn't have taken three steps within the Hold when we were jumped by a courageously stupid (or perhaps, stupidly courageous) group of bandits. There were maybe five of them in the whole party, and the biggest and ugliest, the one with a scar running through his eye, was clearly in charge. "You two never should have come here," he growled.

I rolled my eyes. Every last one of them was wearing crappy, studded armor, carrying iron weapons, and half of them were shirtless. "Companion fodder," I muttered, rolling my eyes.

The leader whirled to face me. "You say something, bitch?"

"_Hey,"_ Brynjolf interrupted sharply, just I very clearly annunciated, "Companion. _Fodder."_

"You'll die _first!"_ the leader made a move to charge us, but Brynjolf and I, in the first of many completely unintended displays of power, both dismounted and simultaneously drew our weapons in one fluid movement. He stumbled backwards, surprised.

We stood fully armed, now, and one of the bandits standing towards the back—a Redguard with wiry cornrows—was scrutinizing me something fierce. But this the mask of his countenance broke—he recognized me. "Bloody hell… you're Vilkas' girl, aren't you? Little whatsername… Morwyn, wasn't it?"

"Try again," I snarled, twirling my swords in lazy arcs to loosen my wrists.

The Redguard winced, and called to his leader. "Um, Vitus? She's a Companion. You may not want to…"

It came too late; the one in charge missed the memo. He leapt at me, only to be swiftly decapitated by a Daedric war axe. "Anyone else?" Brynjolf snarled, the axe in his hand dripping blood.

The bandits took their leave, then, heading for the hills with their tails between their legs, and Brynjolf and I continued towards Ivarstead. But now, there was no hope of silence. "Vilkas' girl?" He asked, his face—and eyes—unreadable. "Isn't he one of the Companions' Twins?"

I nodded. "Aye. Vilkas and I were… well, to use your favorite terminology, _well-acquainted, _back in the day. But that was years ago, back when I ran with the Companions full-time."

We picked up the pace to a trot as the rain began to fall in earnest. "So how did you know that Redguard?"

I shrugged. "I _think _he was a sellsword in Whiterun back all those years ago. If memory serves, anyway."

"And he remembers you because of whom you were _courting?" _Brynjolf asked flatly. Women known for the men they courted tended to be rather… unsavory.

I sighed. "I used to run jobs with Vilkas all the time. Farkas, too. People got used to seeing me with one of the Wolf Twins. And after Vilkas and I started seeing each other…" I shrugged. "People just came to expect it. It wasn't like we were making love in the middle of the plaza, you know. Companions just work in pairs."

His eyelid twitched. "I could have lived my whole life without that mental image."

I smirked and dug my heels into my horse's flanks.


	35. Parallelism

**Hey all you readers, reviewers, and lurkers :3 So I realize that this happens with everything I write, but the more I flesh out the story, the more convoluted the plot becomes. Anyone else noticed this?**

-)

True to Brynjolf's prediction, we arrived in Ivarstead just after midnight. It would have been akin to suicide to climb the Seven-Thousand Steps in the dark, so we devised a ten-second plan as to how to get into the inn without getting the Dragonborn arrested. We tied up the horses just outside of town in a relatively safe copse of trees, and set our plan into motion.

"…And whatever you do," Brynjolf muttered to me, who was currently bundled up in his arms, "do _not _act like you're anything other than asleep."

I nodded—"Got it."—and nestled into his chest as I pulled my hood up, keeping my face away from prying eyes. Plus, I missed this.

I hadn't intended to _actually _fall asleep, but apparently I was more exhausted than I thought. I'd been filling in bits and pieces of the story all day, as he'd asked for them, and figured he'd gotten most of it by now. This telling the truth business, to be honest, left me kind of exhausted. So I don't remember getting _into _the inn, or apparently running into Vipir, but I remember bits of his conversation with the innkeeper.

"Any rooms available?" Brynjolf asked wearily, mostly out of politeness that necessity. This inn was pretty damn near deserted.

"Aye," the innkeeper returned, and after some awkward maneuvering on Brynjolf's part, was ten Septims richer. "Lad, you look half-dead. Are you sure you don't want some ale, or mead?"

No doubt, Bryn shook his head. "No, thank you. What I _want_ is to fall asleep like this lucky lady, here."

I heard an unfamiliar laugh, and knew it had to be the innkeeper's. "Fell asleep on the road, did she?"

"Aye, just past Kynesgrove." Brynjolf's voice was little more than a rumble from my vantage point. "I've yet to work out how, but she's figured out how to sleep in the saddle."

"A lucky lady, indeed," the innkeeper agreed. "Wait, do you have horses…?" The conversation filtered out of my consciousness then, and I heard no more.

-)

When I awoke the next morning, I was disoriented, and _warm. _The former was normal enough; that's what happens when you don't remember falling asleep, I suppose. But the latter was such a luxury that I didn't mind the former so much. Since coming to Skyrim, I had never truly felt warm. Morrowind is a country of fire, but Skyrim is snow. So how—and _why_—was I feeling all snug and cozy under the covers _now?_

And then, it hit me. I wasn't alone. The heat was radiating from the figure asleep next to me. One red-headed Nord, whose audacity I couldn't decide whether to shake my head or smile at. I realized I was boot- and bracerless, but the rest of my armor was still intact, straps and all. So that wasn't his goal. _Hmm_.

Sometime during the night, I ended up with my back against his chest, my head resting in the hollow of his throat. His arms were about my waist, his chin resting atop my head. I knew that to the casual observer, we must have looked like any other couple in Skyrim… and then I realized his aim. The innkeeper must have mistaken us for married, and one of us sleeping on the floor would have ruined the charade. Or, I realized, it may have been as simple as the fact that it was _too damn cold _to sleep alone. Whatever it was, it could wait a few more minutes while I slept on, safe and warm for the moment.

Suddenly, a sharp knock came form the door. I was about to call for the visitor to open it, but Brynjolf beat me to it. Immediately, my eyes shut tight again. Better to let them think I was asleep; they'd be more frank when it was simply Nord-to-Nord, Man-to-Man.

"I apologize for disturbing you," came the voice of the innkeeper, "but your friend was leaving and asked me to give you this."

I felt the heat leave my side and realized Brynjolf must have gotten up. I hissed at the sudden drop in temperature. "Thank you kindly, kinsman."

"Mmm." The innkeeper must have nodded, because he then said, "Well, I'll just leave you and your… _companion_ be." I almost laughed at his choice of word.

"Wife," Brynjolf supplied, and I felt him smooth back my bangs. "This lovely creature you see before you is my wife."

_Laying it on a bit thick, aren't we, Bryn? _Though if he was so quick to defend my honor, then maybe there wasstill hope for us. Somewhere. It made me realize, though, that the first reason I came up with for sleeping next to a space heater was null and void.

"Forgive me," the innkeeper said, sounding truly contrite, "I just assumed… you see, you… well, she _is_ an elf, you know…"

"Aye, they don't usually fraternize with the likes of men," Brynjolf agreed, tactfully ignoring the other man's babbling. "But this one does."

"Yes, clearly!" The innkeeper's laugh and footsteps retreated, and the door shut behind him.

I could feel Brynjolf's gaze boring into me, but for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what in Oblivion he was staring at. Then I felt his fingers brush against my jawline in a ghostlike touch, and I realized: I had a _massive, _achingbruise there, courtesy of his knuckles. "I'm sorry, Ty," I heard him mumble. "But you deserved that."

I decided then that Nord men are the _kings _of mixed signals.

I felt the heat return to my side, and figured he must have gotten back into bed. Out of the curiosity that wheedled at me to see what he'd do, I nuzzled back into his side with a soft little moan. Not sure what I expected—him to push me away, wake me up?—but it wasn't for his breath to catch and him to pull me closer, back into our previous sleeping arrangement. _Hmm. So we're actually right back where we started, but both too stubborn to admit nothing's really changed._

Beautiful.

Well, I wouldn't be the first to crack. Morwyns are nothing if not flinty and resilient, dammit_. _Besides, I would never live it down. So I forced myself to relax, to try to sleep. Instead, my mind wandered in that space between wakefulness and dreams, and came across a memory I'd almost forgotten. Almost, but not quite.

_The last time I'd woken up next to a man, utterly confused and disoriented, was in Jorrvaskr, all those years ago. Farkas and Aela had been married the week before, and the party here in Whiterun was still going strong. We'd snuck away from the party, retreated into his quarters, talking, laughing, enjoying each other's presence. And I'd fallen asleep. But Vilkas was a Companion—he was nothing if not honorable. _

_But when I'd woken up in his bed, with his arms around me, I was understandably alarmed. "What happened?" I had asked, trying to sit up. "Where am I…? Wait, did I fall asleep?"_

"_Calm yourself, Morwyn." Vilkas had said, his smile soft but prominent. "You're in Jorrvaskr—my quarters, actually. We fell asleep last night…" He pulled me back against his chest. "Relax, Little Elf. You're safe here."_

_That had been his unintentional mantra—you're safe here. I was so unused to the concept he constantly had to remind me. Not that he minded, but still. "Morwyn…" he murmured my name like a prayer. "…I…" He cut himself off._

"_Hmm?" I awkwardly half turned to face him._

"_Nothing," he said, still smiling quietly. "Go back to sleep, Little Elf."_

_I started to mumble the ubiquitous "Don't call me Little Elf!" but was too far gone into the dream world for the words to form coherently._

I must have eventually dozed off, because next thing I knew, my eyes snapped open and I finally felt like I'd gotten some sleep_. _I twisted, trying to survey the room, but stopped when I found Brynjolf, and pretended to be suitably shocked. He was awake, gazing at me with an unreadable look in his eyes. "You've got chutzpah, Nord, I'll give you that," I said to him, glancing pointedly down at our sleeping arrangement.

He withdrew his hands with a smirk, but his face flushed. "I wasn't about to make you sleep on the floor."

I smirked, not-so-gently nudging him out of the way so that I could get out from this tangle of blankets. The bed was shoved up against one corner of the room, and I had the misfortune of facing the wall. "A gentleman would have taken the floor."

"A _thief_ didn't want to freeze to death," he shot back as we both set our feet on the floor.

I hissed when I came into contact with the icy floorboards. "Sweet Meridia, that's cold!"

He shot me a look and held both hands out, classic 'told you so!' style. He then tossed me my boots and bracers, and we sat there in silence a moment, suiting up. Then I pretended to realize, "I fell asleep wearing these."

Brynjolf cocked an eyebrow my way. "Are you _trying _to find ways to make this uncomfortable? I think you are."

I shot him a withering look. "I'm just trying to piece it all together."

Brynjolf rolled his eyes. "Our boots were caked in mud, and falling asleep in your bracers cuts off circulation. Rune almost lost a finger doing that. _Pardon me _for looking out for you." He handed me my sword belt, along with the steel dagger that had been in my boot. "Though I'm not so sure handing you weapons is the smartest thing for me, right now…"

I laughed as I buckled the belt on over my hips. I tried not to think about how he got that off, and instead realized what he was slipping into his boot. "You've got Mehrunes' Razor!"

He smiled sheepishly. "Well, you weren't using it." He soundlessly slid it back out of his boot. "If you want it back, though…" He held it out to me.

"Keep it," I said, folding his fingers over the hilt. "Maybe it'll bring you better luck than it ever did me." I paused, realizing something. "Did I hear the innkeeper in here earlier?"

Brynjolf nodded. "Aye, he brought a letter from Vipir." He held up said note. "He's telling me he left to go tell Mercer we'd found you, basically." Then he remembered. "Would you mind burning it?"

"Paranoid much?" I quipped, but nevertheless cast a short spell of flames and held out the hand that contained the flames.

Finally fully suited and armored up, we both stood, sizing each other up. You'd never know we were thieves, from how we both carried ourselves, how we both acted and reacted to people. You'd never know we were Guild Second and Dragonborn. In fact, if you didn't know us at all, you'd say we weren't much of anything, except a tired Nord and a high-strung Dunmer.

Brynjolf broke the silence first. "After you, Lady Dragonborn," he said, his good-natured smirk returning. "Destiny's calling."


	36. Revelations

**I love the smell of dragons in the morning. Smells like **sniff** angst.**

**By the way, thank you all for being so supportive :) I really appreciate when you leave me your thoughts :)**

**-)**

I had led the way up the Seven Thousand Steps, and so I was the first one on the landing that High Hrothgar perched on. The wind whipped about us fiercely, blowing snow and ice into our eyes. I blew my customary kiss to the statue of Talos sitting just off the path, ignoring the confused look Brynjolf sent my way. It was just my greeting for the Dovahkiin so long deceased. High Hrothgar loomed like a beast atop the Throat of the World, the ancient stone monastery built in the style of the Palace of the Kings. Twin staircases led to two enormous, bronzed, arched doors.

But I had been up here too many times to appreciate the breathtaking sight. Now it was just another of the many places I needed to frequent to keep Skyrim running smoothly. I pushed open one of the giant doors with the air of one accustomed to doing so, Brynjolf following in a half-awestruck, half-red-alert state. Being a Nord in High Hrothgar brought out the shock and awe; the fact that Ulfric would be here as well brought out the red-alert.

Once inside the massive stone construct, we were greeted by the familiar semidarkness, stone, and icy chill. High Hrothgar is _freezing, _in my humble opinion. Colder than Windhelm and Winterhold combined. The stone carvings were as familiar to me as old friends, as well as the old hermits that lived here.

"Dragonborn!" I heard my title called across the stone courtyard by the speaker of the Greybeards, Master Arngeir. His black, hooded robes flapped behind him as he hurried over to greet me. "It is good to see you in such fine health and spirits!" We clasped forearms, the same warrior's greeting I used with the Companions. "And who is this?" He gestured to the red-headed Nord behind me.

"This is my friend, Brynjolf," I said, motioning for him to join the Master and me. "He's here to make sure I make it out of here _alive." _The word dangled dangerously in the air.

Master Arngeir's generally cheery countenance clouded over. "We have warned Ulfric not to bring his war here. Should he make an attempt on your life, the retaliation will be swift, I can assure you, Dovahkiin." He turned to Brynjolf. "Welcome, Son of Talos, to High Hrothgar. Normally, we would not allow outsiders into our hallowed halls, but any friend of the Dragonborn is a friend of ours."

Brynjolf bowed his head, appropriately humbled. "It is an honor."

I greeted Masters Borri, Wulfgar, and Einarth in the same way I had Arngeir, and each one returned the greeting with a firm grasp on my arm, a bowed head, and a whispered "_Dovahkiin_." that rocked the rafters.

"Dragonborn," called a thick, Nordic drawl that made my skin crawl.

"_Ulfric Stormcloak," _I growled, whirring on heel to face him.

He strode over to me, calm as you please, and we clasped forearms, each of us attempting to make the other squirm. "It is good to see you, Morwyn."

"Saved you the trouble of paying my bounty, 'ey?" I snapped, withdrawing my hand.

"Be civil, children," Master Arngeir called over to us, the warning light but dangerous.

"Sorry, Master," Ulfric and I both said, bowing our heads.

Once my gaze leveled out again, I noticed that Ulfric had brought Galmar as his second. That wasn't really surprising, but it _was _annoying. I rather liked the gruff, no-nonsense general. He treated me like any other soldier, like an equal. Seeing me Shout would shoot that to Oblivion. Brynjolf, I realized, would probably be the same way. _Brilliant, Tiberia. Bloody freakin' brilliant._

"Come, _Kiirre," _Master Arngeir said. _Children, _he called us. "Let us taste of your separate Thu'umme before we tell you why we have called you. It has been too long."

Ulfric turned to me, but I gestured to the Greybeards and said, sickly-sweet, "After you, Stormcloak."

He shot me a dirty look, and somewhere behind me I heard Brynjolf's characteristic laugh, but more scornful than usual. Ulfric then squared his shoulders and faced the Greybeards. He drew in a sharp breath, and barked, "_Fus!"_

The force knocked back the collected Greybeards, and I couldn't help but grant the man an iota of respect. Any mortal that could use the Thu'um had unparalleled focus and determination. It isn't easy for them. Of course, I'm not mortal. I'm _dovah. _So, I squared up to face the Greyberads and shouted, "_Fus ro dah!"_

I didn't expect the four of them to go flying, given that the last time I'd shouted that at them, they'd barely budged. But then, the last time I'd shouted at them, I'd been a Companion whelp and in Skyrim a grand total of a month. "By the Nine, Dragonborn!" Master Arngeir exclaimed as they reassembled themselves on the main room. "There was no need for the full shout!"

I shrugged, unapologetic. At Master Borri's stern look, however, I bowed my head. "Masters," I began uneasily, raising my head again, "why have you brought us here?"

"I was wondering that myself," Ulfric drawled, his piercing gaze intent upon his former Masters.

"The two of you are the closest thing to Masters of the Thu'um that this Era will ever see," Master Arngeir said, half-haughtily, half-sadly. "She, more so than you, Ulfric. Nevertheless, your mastery—however scant or extensive it may be—is why the Grandmaster requests you meet him _immediately."_

"Paarthurnax asked for us?" I asked, confused. The _Onik Gein_—Old One—almost never deigned to speak with us mere mortals. "Sweet Meridia, this must be bad."

Master Arngeir nodded solemnly. "I am glad_ one of you _recognizes the seriousness of this." He glared pointedly at Ulfric, and the latter actually bowed his head. I recoiled in shock. "Now, the two of you need to get up to the top of the mountain as quickly as possible. The Dragonborn knows the way."

I nodded, and led the way out into the courtyard, past the stonework and out to the open gate that led to the blistering, Northern Skyrim winds. "Care to do the honors, Ulfric?" I asked, my face a mask.

He looked to me, the winds, and back again. "You mock me, Dragonborn."

"I have a name, you know," I said irritably. "And what, don't know the Shout? No wonder you don't understand the importance of being called, _personally, _by Paarthurnax." I drew in a deep breath, then barked, "_LOK VAH KOOR!"_

Immediately, the skies cleared and I began the lengthy trek upwards, and the man who set a thirty-thousand Septim bounty on my head followed behind me like a loyal dog.

-)

It took a few more Clear Skies shouts, but we eventually made it all the way up to the summit of the Throat of the World. "Try not to panic," I muttered in Ulfric's general direction.

"Why would I…?" He began, but was silenced by the whooshing of wind past wings.

And suddenly, a large Elder Dragon landed before us. His wings were tattered, his horns chipped and broken, his skin a dull gray-green. His eyes were dulled with age, but sparkled with intelligence as he looked us over. Before my former employer could panic and draw a weapon, I strode forward, greeting him in the way of the dragons: "_Drem, Yol, Lok, _Paarthurnax."

I'm not sure dragons can truly smile, but by the Nine, just then it looked like the Old One was. "_Drem, Yol, Lok, _Dragonborn." He lowered his head in a gesture of submission to my Thu'um. When he raised it, he turned to Ulfric, saying, "_Drem, Yol, Lok, _Stormcloak." He did not, however, bow to the Jarl of Eastmarch.

Ulfric, to his eternal credit, merely replied, _"Drem, Yol, Lok."_

"You called us, _fahdon?"_ I asked, calling him friend, as few could.

Paarthurnax nodded his great, scaly head. "I fear for Skyrim—_Keizaal_. Tell me mortals—_joorre—_have you ever heard of the Oblivion Crisis?"

"Of course," I said (daedra worshipper!), but Ulfric said, "No, I don't believe so."

Paarthurnax exhaled a great, shuddering sigh. "An Era ago, the king—_jun—_of the empire was murdered. Different humans—_julle—_blamed each other, but the result was worse. _Faal jun lost krill naal vulom." The king was killed by darkness. _"The Daedric Prince, Mehrunes Dagon, desired to enter Tamriel—_Taazokaan—_in his true, terrible form. He was driven out by one with _Dovahsos." Dragon blood. _"Since then, the masters—_Inne—_of the Thu'um have kept watch over Oblivion, over the _vulom _that almost overtook _Taazokaan."_

Paarthurnax drew in a deep breath. "The _vulom _is back, children—_kiirre. _We have found three disturbances from Oblivion. Big ones, not merely a mage and his _lah." Magicka. "_True disturbances. We must prepare for war—_kein_—with these fearsome beasts of Oblivion, if we are to hope to…"

"Master?" I interrupted quietly. Paarthurnax immediately eyed me with the sort of intensity that made my insides turn to jelly. But this had to be said. "Master, I think those disturbances you're talking about are just Daedric Princes dropping by Nirn."

"And how would you know?" Ulfric scoffed, coming out of his stupor.

I shot him a withering look. "Because, I have been visited thrice by Daedric Lords in the past few months. Lord Sheogorath visited me during my incarceration by the Thalmor, and Lord Hircine decided to re-grant me Beast Blood for a night."

Paarthurnax scratched at his scaly head, evidently at a loss. "That… would explain things, _Dovahkiin."_

"Daedra!?" Ulfric exclaimed, clearly not as open-minded as the Elder Dragon. "You've been communing with _Daedra!?"_

"I'm a Dunmer!" I retorted hotly. "Of freaking _course _I've been communing with them! You pray to Talos, don't you?"

"Talos is the patron of the Nords," Stormcloak spat back at me, rubbing at his temples in frustration. "The _filthy _Daedra are little more than demons brought high by milk-drinking elves…!"

"Hold your tongue, heathen!" I barked at him. "I should think _Skyrim, _of all places, would understand the value of the _freedom of religion!"_

"You insolent _wyrm_…!"

"_ENOUGH!" _Paarthurnax roared over our rapidly-escalating argument. Ulfric and I were shocked into silence. "_Enough."_ The Elder Dragon repeated, his tail sweeping about behind him. That was the only thing that gave away his agitation. "It is not good to see _bormah _and _kiir _fight! You are…!"

"Wait," Ulfric interrupted. "What did you say?"

If the scaly face of a dragon is capable of looking cross, then Paarthurnax did. "I said, it is not good for _bormah _and _kiir _to fight!"

"Yes, we heard that," Ulfric pressed. "_Kiir _is child; you've said as much. But _bormah?"_

The word struck a chord in my very soul. I knew that word—don't ask me how, but I did. "No…" I whispered, hugging my arms to my chest. "No, it can't be…." But it made so much _sense_. My hard-headedness, my self-confidence, my utter disregard for things that could kill me…

Stormcloak whirled on me. "Morwyn, you know what this means?"

I nodded, still attempting to disappear behind my own embrace. "Father," I whispered. "It means father."


	37. Answers Long Awaited

**Hey all you readers, lurkers, and reviewers! :) Now that the firestorm has died down a bit, I think it's safe to post this here :3**

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**Onward!**

**-)**

Ulfric staggered backwards as though physically struck. "What?! Impossible!" He turned to Paarthurnax. "You're mistaken, _In." Master, _he called the dragon. "What you're suggesting is impossible. Absurd, even."

"I am not wrong, _joor!"_ Paarthurnax bellowed at the tiny Nord standing before him. "I have felt the _Dovahsos _of the _Dovahkiin _since her…" he paused, looking for the human word. "…conception! And I have felt your pitiful _Thu'um _since your training, long ago—_lingrah vod_. There is no mistake, _vojun." False king._

I had never seen Paarthurnax so furious, even when I fought Alduin atop the Throat of the World all those years ago. Ulfric was grasping at straws, trying to come up with an answer—though for Paarthurnax, himself, or me, I could not say. "_In," _he said again, almost timidly, "I do not remember when I would have…"

"You _do, _Stormcloak," Paarthurnax growled, lowering his head to ground level to stare down Ulfric, male-to-male. "And if you are so cowardly—_nivahriin—_that you will not tell your own _kiir _of her origins, than woe to you, _joor, _the next time you pick up a blade!"

That did him in. Ulfric turned to me, his expression unreadable. "Morwyn… you knew your mother, yes?" At my nod, he added, "Tell me about her. What did she look like, what did she do?"

I blinked in recoil. "Uhm, well." I hadn't expected_ that _question. "My mother was a politician. Damn good one too, if you ask anyone she ever dealt with. Travelled all across Tamriel before Red Mountain, and even after. She was born into House Indoril, and adopted into House Redoran when she married my fath… well, the man I _thought _was my father until about a minute ago." Both Ulfric and Paarthurnax flinched at that. This was _not _the ideal way to tell a girl she was a bastard. "She was tall for a Dunmer, skin more blue than gray, like mine. I have her eyes; my oldest sister Neva does, too. She wasn't the warm and friendly type, but she loved her family with the fierce pride and joy of House Redoran."

"You speak of her in the past, _Dovahkiin," _Paarthurnax noted dryly.

I drew in a shuddering breath. "She was murdered almost ten years ago."

"Acacia…" Ulfric was looking at me with new eyes, now. "Her name was Acacia, wasn't it? Acacia Indoril Morwyn…"

It hit me like a warhammer to the gut. That was my mother's name, all right. "You _knew_ her…"

Ulfric nodded slowly, one hand clapped over his mouth as though he were going to be sick. "Aye, I knew her."

There was a thick silence then, one that not even Paarthurnax dared break.

"How?" I finally asked, the edges of my vision beginning to blur. "_How _is this even possible? You hate anything that isn't a Nord—that's common knowledge."

Ulfric let out a huge, shuddering sigh, running his fingers through his Nordic blond hair. "Are you sure you wish to know? It isn't a happy story…"

"If you tell me I am the product of _anything less _than harmonious adult consent, I will…!" I began.

"No!" Ulfric had his hands up, palms out, a gesture of negation and submission. "Nothing like that, I can assure you!"

"What then," I said with a vicious bite to the words, "makes it so unhappy?"

He sighed again, and folded his arms across his chest. "When I returned from the Great War, I had been tortured at the hands of the Thalmor, along with my father, the pervious Jarl of Eastmarch. He died during my incarceration. You knew this, yes?" I nodded, and so he continued. "When I returned to Windhelm, the people, so desperate for blood and revenge, named me Jarl and set me upon the Throne of Ysgramor." He drew in a sharp breath. "I was not ready."

It was the closest to vulnerable I had ever seen the man. "Why?" I asked, engrossed in the story of my birth despite myself.

He shook his head. "I was young, naïve, stupid. The Great War had hardened my outlook on life, but it hadn't been tempered with age and experience the way it should have. So when the remaining government of Morrowind sent a delegate to smooth over Nord-Dunmer relations a few years after the war, I thought I could handle it."

"My mother," I said quietly.

"Aye, they sent your mother." Ulfric nodded. "Damned good politician, the woman was. Polite, but firm, and with that fierce, Elven pride that I now see in you, Morwyn." He paused. "That's your surname, isn't it? Why use it?"

I nodded. "Why? Because it was easier to distance myself from who I was with a different name. But my given name is Tiberia. After Tiber Septim."

Uflric's countenance broke into a sad, wry smile. "Your mother named you for your Nord heritage, it seems." Funny, I had never realized that until he pointed it out. "Anyway, Acacia came to the Palace of the Kings to keep Morrowind's _other _neighbors from attacking, since they were knee-deep in Argonians at that point." The wars with Black Marsh had decimated the Dunmer after Red Mountain erupted, and we'd eventually been overrun. But that didn't mean rebel groups didn't skirmish throughout my homeland. "And she brought over terms and a treaty that she and I argued about for the gods-know-how-long."

"Why wasn't High King Torygg there?" I interrupted.

Ulfric shrugged. "He trusted me to handle it, and the other Jarls didn't much care one way or another. Most Dark Elves coming over from Morrowind put roots in Windhelm, and a few keep travelling down to Riften, but that's about as far as most get." I nodded. This was true. "So it fell to me to carve out this treaty in a way that wouldn't completely decimate every tradition, every Nord's sense of honor, dignity, and pride. We already had too many Dark Elves living in the Gray Quarter, and having an 'esteemed elven guest' in the Palace of Ysgramor was blasphemy to some."

The way he said that made me figure he was one of them. "I'm still not seeing how I come into the picture, here."

"Patience, Tiberia." Ulfric ran his fingers through his hair again, and this time his ring caught on one of his braids. The absurd comedy of the moment broke the specter that had been settling over us. After finally yanking his hand free, he continued, carefully slipping his ring into his pocket as he did so. "One night, after a particularly _excruciating_ afternoon of butting heads, long after the rest of the Palace had gone to bed, I sat in the… well, you know it as the war room. I was poring over pages and pages of these documents, trying to work out a compromise that would leave both sides mollified. And that's when she burst through the door, in full-on tears."

My brow furrowed. "'Morwyns do not cry. They are resistant. Resilient. They do not weep,'" I quoted.

"Acacia said the same thing when I asked her what was the matter," Ulfric admitted with a half-hearted chuckle. "And then she told me the news she'd just received: her husband and eldest daughter had been killed while out hunting Cliff Racers." The Bear of Markarth shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot in the snow, and I knew that whatever came next would not be pleasant. "I had no idea how to react, beyond the typical, 'I am sorry for your loss, Lady Morwyn.' And suddenly I found myself being embraced by this Dark Elf, this politician, this woman I had a tough time liking."

"And it escalated," I ventured.

"Yes." Ulfric nodded. "_That _is where you come in, Tiberia. She and I… Ysmir's beard, I still don't know exactly how it happened. But when we awoke the next morning in my bed, the both of us were so embarrassed and shamed that the negotiations were finished within the hour. Or at least, that's what I thought happened."

"My elf father died when I was seven," I supplied.

Ulfric nodded. "Yes, well." He shifted again, his discomfort rising. "Imagine my surprise when I heard the gossip in the Gray Quarter nine months later. A child, they said. Born into House Morwyn of the Great House Redoran. To Lady Acacia, and her _husband_, Lord Amory. A beautiful baby girl—the third, now. And here, we thought she was well past her childbearing years." The story was closing now. I could hear it in his voice. "I was then treated to the acute shock of realizing I'd been seduced, and had slept with a married woman, but Tiberia…" He was grasping at straws again. "It never crossed my mind that you could be _mine."_

I knew he was telling the truth, there. But it didn't make it any easier to choke down. "So what you're telling me," I said slowly, "is that I'm not a child born of too much mead, misplaced affection, strangers passing in the night, or even traditional, hormonal _stupidity_. I was born of _political necessity." _It stung. Oh by Azura, it stung.

Ulfric's face fell before he masked it again. I could tell he'd never put it together like that. "Yes," he finally said. "I'm so sorry, but yes."

The corners of my eyes stung now, suicidal tears not unlike the ones I'd shed in Jorrvaskr were making their way down my face. "And you knew when I joined, didn't you?" I accused viciously. "And that's what the bounty was for—you wanted me back in Windhelm before someone _else_ figured it out. Thirty-Thousand Septims will find someone _real quick, _won't it?"

"_Dovahkiin," _Paarthurnax rumbled, his huge head now level with mine. "Take heart, _fahdon. _No tears—_luv." _He gently nudged me with his huge scaly skull. "This does not change who you are."

Having a dragon attempt to comfort me was too much, just too _damn _much. The tears began falling in earnest, now, swiftly and silently. "You knew," I growled in Ulfric's general direction.

It took him an eternity to answer. "Galmar had his suspicions," the Jarl finally said. "'She commands an army just like you do, Ulfric. She's just as stubborn and restless as you were, back in the day. And she's the proper age.'" His impression of his Second-in-Command was uncanny. "I couldn't believe it, didn't want to."

I turned back to Paarthurnax, who was quickly becoming little more than a gray-green blur in my vision. "Are we finished, _In?"_

"_Geh, Dovahkiin," _he said. _Yes, Dragonborn._

"I take my leave, then," I said, falling into Companion mode, even as I felt my heart squeezed in a vice and wrenched in half.

I barked _"LOK VAH KOOR!" _at the insufferable winds and took off down the side of the mountain, not caring if Ulfric Stormcloak—my bloody _father_—followed me down or not.

-)

We reached High Hrothgar less than an hour later. We burst through the doors and were immediately besieged by the Greybeards. What did the Grandmaster want? What, a second Oblivion Crisis!? Oh thank the Divines, it was only a false alarm! The Dragonborn is a Daedra worshipper, 'ey? Wait, why is said Dragonborn crying?

"Tiberia…?" Brynjolf called tentatively, his brow furrowed and confused.

"Are we finished, Masters?" I asked the Greybeards, keeping a tight rein on whatever dignity I had left.

"Aye, we are, but Dragonborn," Master Arngeir began, "whatever is the matter?"

"Nothing," I said, a clear lie. "May I take my leave?"

"Of course. Impatient to leave, I see." Arngeir chuckled despite himself. "So very much like another student I could mention." He glanced pointedly at Ulfric.

"Must run in the family," I choked out before I turned on heel, heading towards the large, bronzed doors out of this wretched place.

"Runs in the…?!" Master Arngeir called after me.

Galmar's shout of "_I knew it!" _was the last thing I heard before I slammed the door shut behind me (as best I could, anyway), and took off down the Seven-Thousand Steps. Running like this in the snow on the tallest mountain in Skyrim was probably suicidal, but right then, I didn't care. I needed to get away from people, from the Greybeards, from _Ulfric._

I remembered too late, however, that someone had followed me up here. The realization was brought on when something—well, some_one_—tackled me from behind. We slammed into the snow, landing in an awkward heap on the ground. I try to scramble away, but Brynjolf pinned me down and caught my wrists in a grip that, though gentle, left no room for argument. "Sweet Mara, woman!" he exclaimed. "Slow down!"

I was painfully aware of his weight pressing on my floating ribs, on down. "Bryn, get off."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Do you promise not to run off again?"

"Yes," I choked out through the fresh onslaught of tears storming my face.

He rolled off me, and we both sat up in the ankle-deep snow. "By the Nine, Tiberia, whatever that Grandmaster said, whatever _Stormcloak _said…" He shook his head, as though that would clear whatever was in his mind. "I've got two war axes and a bad idea; all you have to do is say the word."

I smiled begrudgingly through the tears now openly streaming down my face. I smiled begrudgingly at this loyal friend of mine, this smooth-talking thief, this stubborn Nord, this sweet-natured man. I smiled begrudgingly because I was a Morwyn, and we do not weep. "No," I managed to get out.

Brynjolf's smirk held no scorn. "Wrong word, that. But Ty, in all seriousness, what happened up there?"

I just shook my head, scrubbing viciously at my face with the heel of each hand. "Paarthurnax knew my father," I said quietly.

"That's good news, isn't it?" He asked, taking my face in his hands so that I had to look him in the eyes. "Haven't you been searching for him since you realized you were part Nord?"

I glanced up at him, into that unwavering gaze, distinctly ashamed of how bleary mine was. "It's Ulfric Stormcloak, Bryn."

"Oh, Divines…" was all he said as he drew me into his embrace.

I'm still not sure how long we knelt there, me sobbing into his chest, and he just holding me tight.


	38. The Trial

**Hey all you readers, lurkers, and reviewers :D Glad to see most of you enjoyed the last bombshell I dropped. And I'm kind of sad I broke my daily update streak—life got in the way, you know?**

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**-)**

We arrived in Riften three days later. Not much was spoken between us in interim, though at first Brynjolf had tried to coax the old, spirited Tiberia out from the haunted shell of this new one. But even his patience has its limits, and besides, there was still a good chance the Riften Guild would kill me. We left the horses at the stables in the capable hands of the Redguard Shadr, and the silence was finally broken when Brynjolf turned to me and said, "We'll do this the right way, Elfling." He produced a short length of rope out of seemingly nowhere. "Make life easy on yourself and come quietly. And I'll be needing your weapons."

I knew I was in deep shit when he called me 'elfling.' Brynjolf referred to me as 'lass' or 'Ty' or even 'that damnable woman!' but never by my race. Wordlessly, I unbuckled my sword belt and yanked the steel dagger out of my boot and held them out. He took them, bound my hands together behind my back, and I momentarily was thrown back into Helgen, back to the screaming and fires and blood of Alduin's first attack. He yanked the hood of my cuirass over my head, brining me sharply back to Nirn, and pushed open the door to the city.

Delvin Mallory met us just past the gate. The old Breton and Brynjolf exchanged curt, knowing nods, and clamped down on either of my arms. They led me through the city, and I felt the eyes of its inhabitants boring into me. There hadn't been a Thieves Guild trial in years, I later learned. The Guild hadn't dared. But now they were back in force, and Skyrim knew it. My impromptu escort led me down through the Ratway and into the Ragged Flagon. Brynjolf's face was contorted into a thin-lipped, stony mask, and Delvin was just staring forward unblinkingly.

Funny, the Flagon used to be as comfortable to me as my family home. Now it felt harsh and alien, like the darkness was pressing in on me. Not unlike the Jorrvaskr darkness just after Kodlak had been killed. My guard led me into the Cistern, bringing me forward to the circular dais in the middle of the room. They deposited me there, and receded into the shadows.

"_Tiberia Morwyn!" _boomed a raspy, familiar voice. _"You are wanted for crimes against the Riften Thieves Guild." _

The owner of the voice stepped out of the shadows—the notorious Mercer Frey himself. He stood just before his Guildmaster's desk, flanked a short distance away by Vex and Brynjolf. The rest of the Guild filled in around the room, creating a perimeter a few paces back from the water in the Cistern. Every member of the Guild—including honorary members like Vekel the Man, Dirge, and Maven Black-Briar—was in attendance.

"When asked a question," Mercer growled from his vantage point near his desk, "you answer aye or nay. There is no other answer. Are we clear?"

My hood was down over my eyes and my hands bound behind me at the small of my back, but my teeth were still bared. _"Aye."_

Mercer snatched a scroll off his desk. "Are you, or are you not…" He began, and let his subordinates finish.

Delvin spoke first, from somewhere behind me. "Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold?"

So it was to be a list of my titles, then? Shor's bones, we'd be here a while. "Aye."

Tonilia was next, from somewhere to my left. "Harbinger of the Companions?"

"Aye." It felt like the wind had been knocked out of me, when I remembered my Pack.

"Thane of…" Vex began, and counted off each hold on her fingers. "…The Pale, Eastmarch, Haafingar, Whiterun, Hjaalmarch, and Falkreath?"

More useless titles. "Aye."

"Blood-Kin of the Orcs?" Rune asked, and I lost track of where all these voices were coming from.

I bit back on my molars. "Aye."

"Champion of…" Niruin's smooth Elven accent began, and like Vex, he counted off on his fingers. "…Azura, Meridia, Peryite, Malacath, Vaermina, Mephala, Sheogorath, Hermaeus Mora, Molag Bal, Sanguine, Clavicus Vile, Hircine, and Mehrunes Dagon?" The entirety of the House of Troubles was there, I noted.

I sighed. That explained a lot. "Aye. More or less."

"What did I say?" Mercer barked.

I winced, but did not back down or revise my answer.

"Sympathizer to the Forsworn?" Cynric asked. He sounded… not quite approving, but certainly hopeful.

The Old Gods, indeed. "Aye."

"The until-four-days-ago-unwitting daughter of Ulfric Stormcloak?" Brynjolf said, cutting swiftly through the silence, only to elicit gaps and shocked stares from the assembled thieves.

I graced him with the sort of glare that made Avalon quake when we were children. "Aye."

The Guild was in an uproar, but Mercer swiftly called it to order. "Are you or are you not," he began, "the Savior of Skyrim, the Slayer of the World-Eater, the honored Dovahkiin? _Dragonborn."_

"Aye…"

"Did you come to the Cistern as a Stormcloak spy?" Thrynn inputted, his voice stony.

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek. "Aye."

"And did you report to Ulfric Stormcloak during the entirety of your time here," Sapphire said, and I was fully ready to answer 'aye,' but she added, "with information of use to him?"

I could have kissed her. "Nay."

"And were you, or were you not, stealing from the Guild fund?" Mercer asked.

I physically recoiled from the suggestion. "What? No! Er, nay... Sweet Meridia, I wouldn't even know _how _to crack that vault back there."

"Best puzzle locks money can buy," Vex said proudly.

"You're good, but you're not that good," Delvin added.

I nodded. "Yes I'm aware."

"Can we get back to _decorum, _please?" Mercer interrupted.

"And did you, or did you not, Shout at a certain Altmer?" Vipir asked, picking up the slack with that same awestruck look he'd had the last time I'd seen him.

I let out a large sigh at that. "Aye."

"And could you, theoretically," Vipir continued, "Shout again, right now?"

The corner of my lips quirked up in a smirk. "Aye."

"Do it," Maven urged.

I glanced to Mercer, who shrugged and waved me ahead. I shrugged, threw back my head, and shouted, "_YOL!" _Fire leapt from my mouth, but the weakest form of the Shout meant it didn't really go anywhere except up into the roof of the cistern.

When I leveled my gaze back at the tribunal, Mercer, Vex, and Brynjolf weren't looking too lenient. My hood was down around my shoulders now, and my eyes burned with the fire for which the Companions were so famous. "Well, ladies and gentlemen of the Riften Guild, I do believe that's all we need to know," Mercer rasped, almost mocking me with the casualness of his tone.

"Take the bitch to the block!" Dirge called.

"Hold on, Mercer," Delvin said, physically holding Mercer back. I blinked; I hadn't even noticed him rejoin the rest of the Guild leaders. "What say you in your own defense, Tiberia?"

I drew in a shuddering breath, and my resolve just got that much more rock-steady. I was not afraid to die, but it wouldn't be here. Not at the hands of those I once called friends. Not because of my own stupidity. "This is what happens when Tiberia comes before the Dragonborn, I guess. Duly noted, my friends. I won't make the mistake again." I sounded more ominous than furious.

"What do you mean?" Thrynn asked from behind me.

"Even after I stopped reporting to Ulfric," I said, forcing an even tone through the fury lurking right under the surface, "I told no one I was Dragonborn so that I would be just a person. Not the Thane of half the Holds; not Arch-Mage, Harbinger, or Blood-Kin." I shot pointed looks at Delvin, Tonilia, and Rune. "Just the woman. And by the bloody Daedra, it was working."

"As I said, Delvin," Mercer growled with a pointed glare in the direction of the other Breton, "I think we've heard enough…"

Vex hummed in response. "_More_ than enough."

"THEN YOU'RE BLOODY HYPOCRITES!" I shouted at them with the sort of fury I hadn't felt since my werewolf days. "_HYPOCRITES, ALL OF YOU!"_

My sudden volume shook the ceiling, dirt suddenly raining down on us. And more importantly, it made Vex, Delvin, and Mercer pause. I was pretty sure I knew Brynjolf's thoughts on the matter. Ivarstead had told me that.

"_Listen to yourselves!" _I called to them, refusing to sound desperate_. _"You would damn a woman for keeping a singular secret to keep people from staring at her like she's the second coming of Akatosh? Like Vipir over there…"

The offending thief immediately averted his eyes, but everyone had seen his awestruck, adoring gaze.

"This is no longer about my half-assed spying; this is about your blasted pride! You would damn a woman for keeping a singular secret in a Guild _full _of them?!" I continued, just shy of shouting. "Half of you aren't even using your real names! What makes this any different?"

"You outright _lied," _Mercer barked. "If Sapphire decides to use an alias, that's her business. If you decide not to mention things that could kill us, then it's our business."

"She didn't lie to our faces, Mercer," Delvin said, ever the voice of reason. "Just omitted some things."

Mercer glared at his Third like he didn't appreciate having his authority questioned. "And the letters make no sense," Vex added quietly. "If she were truly reporting, not just going through the motions, why would Stormcloak get so mad?"

Mercer's eyes narrowed. "The Guild speaks, the Accused listens." And with those words, the trial was closed.

He strode forward, calm as you please, and trapped my bicep in a wicked vice grip. "To the block," he rasped.

I was led out into the Riften Marketplace, and the Guild reassembled its circle topside. Twilight was falling, and the entire town was gathering just outside the perimeter of thieves, trying to catch a glimpse of the trial. "This woman is wanted for crimes against the Riften Guild!" Mercer shouted, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking backwards, exposing my throat to his thirsty blade. "The Guild speaks, the Accused listens!" I had broken his Dwarven one; he held Dawnbreaker up to my throat. Good to know my gear was getting used by _someone. _"Is there any active Operative who objects to the death of this woman? Let him speak, or let him swallow his words whole."

For a moment, there was no sound but the wind blowing in off Lake Honrich and the crying of a baby in the captive audience.

And then, a thick brogue that evoked the misty woods and rolling hills of Falkreath Hold spoke: "I object."

"And why?" Mercer called.

"She's a good thief, a good woman, and a damn good fighter," the brogue continued. "She just got played by a politician. Happens to the best of us."

More silence.

"I object!" called a voice that evoked dark, dusty, desert winds. "For his reasons, and the fact that if we can't rely on ourselves, how can we call ourselves a Guild?" She said Guild; she meant family.

"I object!" came another voice, this one hard-edged and feminine, speaking of cold facts and hard truths. "Anyone who will wreak vengeance for me deserves to live to do it again."

"I object," added a smooth-talking voice that conjured up the giant forests of Valenwood, "for I have no wish to add 'kinkiller' to my list of titles."

Socked me in the gut, that one did. And still, the objections kept coming. "I object!" spat a vicious voice that brought to mind years lived in the Imperial City in Cyrodiil, and years served under uncaring masters. "Because Divines take me before I damn a woman for doing exactly what I am!"

"I object," came a voice that spoke of the craggy, unforgiving Reach, "because any kin of the Forsworn is kin of mine. And as said before, I have no wish to add 'kinkiller' to my list of titles."

"I object," murmured an awestruck, Nordic voice, "because what kind of man would I be to damn the Savior of Skyrim?"

"I object," said a voice, simple and strong, calling to mind years spent on the roads in a bandit clan. "For all the reasons stated, save kinkilling, and for the fact that the last time we lost one of our own, we nearly lost our minds. A certain one of us, most of all. And we call ourselves family—how could we do that to the same man, twice?"

"Don't let me stop you," muttered the brogue.

"I object," came a quieter voice, one that evoked years of fishing off the coast of Solitude. "If her own father put _that _kind of bounty on her head, she must be doing right by us."

"I object," came a broken-nosed accent that called to mind years on the run, fortunes won and lost, and a fatherly sort of affection, "because I've already forgiven the damn woman."

Mercer's blade quivered near my throat as he glanced about his Guild again. "Does _everyone _object?" he asked in frank disbelief

An overwhelming chorus: "YES!"

He clocked me in the forehead with the flat of the blade, then sheathed it once more. "The Guild speaks; the Accused listens!" he called, and the trial was over.

I choked out a half-laugh, half-held breath in disbelief. Every last member had objected. I learned later, that was unprecedented. Never had happened before, not in the entire history of the Riften Guild. A pair of many-buckled boots suddenly thudded into my line of sight. I glanced up, and found myself trapped in Vex's vicious gaze. "Get up," she ordered, jerking me to my feet and then cutting my bonds with the dagger at her hip.

I realized now there were tears in her eyes, something I'd previously thought impossible. "Vex…" I began.

"There's a story you need to hear," was all she said, and she dragged me by the scruff of my neck into the Bee and Barb.


	39. The Legend and the Legate

**Hey all you readers, reviewers, and lurkers :) Have a chapter, eh?**

**And to the non-PM crowd:**

**Aledis: Awesome! :D Can't wait to see what you come up with :) and thank you :) Sorry to hear about your account troubles, but hopefully it'll work for you soon!**

**LiveLaughLove: Thank you :) And I agree with you on the Mercer front. He needs to go die in a ditch. Preferably a smelly ditch from which he can't crawl out :)**

**Hey oh, let's go!**

**-)**

The instant Vex and I stepped foot into the Bee and Barb, I was enveloped in a bone-crushing hug by the rather frazzled innkeeper. "Thank the Divines, you're safe!" she exclaimed, squeezing me so hard I was fully convinced she'd break a rib.

"Keerava…" I wheezed. "…you're… you've… the eggs!"

She released me with a motherly smile. "No need to worry about those." She patted her now deflated belly. "The eggs are safe and warm, Daughter of Azura, under their New Life present."

I'd forgotten about that blanket. "Glad to hear it," I smiled.

"Keerava," Vex interrupted the happy little reunion, "three Cyrodiilic Whiskey. On the rocks. And forgive her armor for the moment." Vex jerked her head towards me.

The Argonian nodded—"Right away."—and disappeared.

"We expecting a third?" I asked cautiously as Vex and I commandeered a table.

"No," she replied sharply as Keerava set down three glasses. "I just need to be drunk for this." She tilted her head back and drained one of the glasses before I could even blink. She pushed another towards me, and raised the remaining one. "To your health, Dragonborn."

We clinked glasses as I said, "Don't start using titles with me, Vex. They're useless buggers…"

Vex smirked and absentmindedly tapped the side of her glass. "Where to begin…?" she mused, her voice losing its characteristic sharp edges for the moment.

"The start's a pretty good place," I quipped from over the rim of my glass. The alcohol burned a steady path down my throat, into my gut. It almost made me gasp, but I willed my face to remain impassive in front of this harsh Imperial. Sheogorath's balls, I'd forgotten how strong Cyrodiilic Whiskey was!

Vex was glaring daggers at me, and I was immediately more at ease. _There _was the Vex I knew. "Swear to me that this does not leave our confidence," she hissed.

I held one scarred hand over my equally scarred heart. "I swear it on my ancestors."

Vex cocked an eyebrow, but she knew me well enough to know what that meant. "Everyone knows the Dragonborn lived in Cyrodiil for years," she said carefully. "Did you ever hear the story of the Legate That Said No?"

I nodded. What Imperial hadn't heard that urban legend? "Of course. The legendary woman who stared down Emperor Titus Mede II and refused to kill the criminal before her."

Vex was tracing the rim of her glass with one slim, pale finger now. "What if I told you it was true?"

My brow furrowed. "It's just an urban legend, Vex."

"It isn't." Something flashed in her eyes. "The Legate's name was Octavia Vexus, and she was a member of the Thieves Guild of Cyrodiil."

And then, it hit me. "That was _you?"_

Vex nodded, almost imperceptibly. "I had been working for the Guild in Cyrodiil since my thirteenth year. I'd grown up on the Waterfront, with those thieves, almost more so than I'd done with my own family. But when I came of age, my father enlisted me in the military and shoved me out the door.

"I worked my way up the ranks easily enough. I'm not old enough to have fought in the Great War, but the empire always finds uses for its soldiers." She sounded more bitter than usual. "My father was a legionnaire, and his father before him, and his before him, all the way back to Auerilius Vexus himself."

"The Imperial general from the late Second Era?" I asked, slightly incredulous.

Vex nodded. "Like I said, my family has a long history of military service, Tiberia." She knocked back more whiskey, and continued. "So it shocked a grand total of no one when I made legate within a few years of joining—even though we were in peacetime…"

The story was interrupted, however, by two drunken out-of-towners. "Good evening, ladies," said one—a thick, stocky Imperial—as he set a hand on the edge of our table and leaned his weight on it.

Vex barely shifted her line of sight from me to him and the Wood Elf he was with before she barked, "Piss off!"

"Hey now," said the Wood Elf. "There's no need to…"

Our turn to interrupt. Vex unsheathed a steel dagger and electricity crackled around my hands as we both turned to glance at them, daring them to say anything more.

"Er, right then," said the Imperial, and the two of them left to find easier marks.

We sheathed our respective weapons and Vex continued. "Like I said, I made the rank of Legate within a few years. But my heart wasn't in it. I'm not made for open warfare; I'm made for subterfuge. Shortly after I made rank, the rumor was going around that I was being considered for the Penitus Oculatus. Then Emperor Titus Mede II himself called me into his throne room one day, and suddenly the rumors were true. I dressed in my best armor, and my familiar sword and shield went with me.

"But I stood in the throne room, and before the Emperor could even begin to extend the offer, the doors burst open and in came the city guard, dragging a man between them like me weighed no more than you or me." She shuddered. "And I knew him, alright. They had the Second-in-Command of the Guild between them."

My eyes widened despite myself. "And so you refused to kill him when ordered to play headsman."

"Aye!" Vex said vehemently. "I wasn't about to kill one of my oldest friends. So I refused. The legate said 'no.'" She shook her head. "They threatened to court-martial her, to arrest and execute her, to strip her of her family name and rank. And she didn't care. They made good on that first promise—she was dishonorably discharged later that same day, and she disappeared into the Thieves Guild, throwing herself into jobs with gusto."

Vex was shaking her head more vehemently now, at something that could never be. "But it wasn't safe for her in the Imperial City, everybody in the place was looking for her. And even when the Guildmaster—the current Grey Fox—sent her out on jobs to other cities—Skingrad, Bravil, Chorrol—but it didn't matter. She wasn't safe, not in Cyrodiil. So she was sent to Skyrim under a deal we made with good ol' Delvin, and here I am, twenty years later…" She knocked back the rest of the whiskey in her glass and slammed it down again. "…telling this story to a Dunmeri Dragonborn who knows what it's like to be hunted, to need a shield."

A silence settled over us. "You've never told anyone about this?" I finally asked, frankly disbelieving.

Vex just shook her head, sending her stringy blond hair flying everywhere. "No. The Gray Fox made a deal with Delvin to exchange some members between Guilds, back before the Riften Guild starting heading to Oblivion in a hand basket. He never said why Ipersonally was in that trade."

My brow furrowed. "Who else was traded?"

"You don't know them," Vex said with a shrug. "They're all dead now, or they've left the Guild. You should have seen it back in its heyday, Ty." I would have said she sounded wistful, but this was _Vex._ "The place was a city under the city. The Flagon was full with the boys from the Guild every night, playing poker, placing bets, drinking booze more like this…" She tapped the side of her now-empty glass. "…as opposed to the Skeever shit we usually have. And I only caught the tail end of it. Back in Mercer's day, when Gallus ran the show, things were different. Peopled _respected_ us."

"The curse," I snorted, thinking of Delvin ramblings.

"We're not cursed," Vex huffed. "We're just having a run of good old-fashioned bad luck. _You're_ the only one of us with any luck left at all these days. Talent, the Guild has tons of, but luck? Not so much."

My eyebrow rose steadily into my hairline. "Are we really such a talented gang?"

Vex shot me an 'oh, _please' _look. "Put it to you this way, elfling. Brynjolf's good; I'm better. Mercer's a _god_ when he can get away, and Delvin's a Master Thief when he can be bothered to get up off his lazy arse. And Cynric Endell is nothing short of a miracle with locks." She sighed. "But we're all getting up there—except Brynjolf, of course—and we've just run out of luck for the moment. But you, Tiberia…" She leveled her dagger right between my eyes, and after the panic died down, I realized she was just using it as a pointer. "…you have luck. You're a mediocre thief at best—and don't give me that look, you're just too honorable to become a Master Thief—but, as Delvin says, the Dark Lady favors you."

"Lady Nocturnal?" I asked, taken aback. "Delvin's a Daedra worshipper?"

Vex shook her head, putting a finger to her lips—Guildspeak for keep your voice down. "No, but Nocturnal is the patron of thieves, is she not?" At my nod, Vex added, "He's a Breton—they're all superstitious. He has a healthy level of fear for something that…" she cut herself off.

"Something that doesn't exist," I finished curtly, knowing what came next.

"Your religion is your business," Vex said, waving me off. "As is mine, as is Delvin's, as is everyone's."

Keerava reappeared then with two more glasses of Cyrodiilic Whiskey, and my stomach turned just at the smell. Never been a fan of whiskey; I'll stick with mead, thanks. But Vex just kept knocked back the stuff, calm as you please. "So what was Thrynn talking about?" I asked carefully. "About sending Brynjolf off to Sheogorath?"

Vex was amazingly alert for someone on her third glass of straight whiskey. "Sheogorath… he's the MadGod, right?"

I nodded. "You were there for my lovely demonstration, I do believe."

Vex's smirk held no malice—her version of a smile. "That alone was almost worth breaking you out of the Thalmor Embassy." Then the smirk dropped, her face became stony. "And he's talking about Brynjolf's brother Raynor. He hasn't told you the story?"

I shook my head. "No, though I do know the boy's dead."

"No, Bryn wouldn't want to burden you with that story." She just shook her head. "Alright Ty, here's your second lesson in Guild history for the day. Back in the day, Brynjolf's parents ran with the Guild—the infamous duo of Ceylon and Juri. To hear Delvin tell it, they were almost as good as Mercer and Karliah." She paused a moment to take another pull. "They went inactive after Raynor was born, but still kept up with the Guild. So Brynjolf and his brother grew up around the Cistern, the Flagon. And so after their parents died, where do you think they were going to go?"

"Riften," I said, unnecessarily, but I knew Vex was counting on it.

"Exactly." Another draught from the glass by her elbow. "Now, this is backhand from Delvin, because I wasn't in the Riften Guild at the time, so bear with me. Raynor was sixteen—old enough to join the Guild, easy—but Brynjolf wasn't of age yet. Mercer inducted Raynor right away, half on legacy, half on talent, but then the problem became what to do with Brynjolf? Delvin adamantly refused to send our red-headed friend to Honorhall Orphanage. He grew up there, the old Breton said, and wasn't about to let Ceylon and Juri's son waste away under Grelod the Kind. So he took Brynjolf under his wing, taught him everything he knows, and Mercer eventually inducted Brynjolf two years early.

"Raynor, though, rose through the ranks quick as a whip, and was made Guild Third by the time he was twenty. And yes, _now _I was in the Guild, a few years older than Ceylon's boys." Another draught. "But Raynor had made himself some powerful enemies, snooping around places he, in hindsight, shouldn't have, and just generally making a nuisance of himself to people in authority. Mercer, the Jarl, town guards, you name it.

"The thing about Raynor, though, is that he could charm is way out of _anything. _You think Brynjolf's a smooth-talker? Pfft." She scoffed through her spit. "He has nothing on Raynor. Although now, they may be about even." She paused as though pondering this, shrugged, and continued. "In any event, there was one night that Raynor was late coming back from a job. He only had to frame someone in Shor's Stone; it wasn't like he was heading to Solitude. Brynjolf, Delvin, and myself were all sitting up the Flagon, waiting for him, when Mercer runs comes running into the tavern from the Ratway, calling us to arms and to get our lazy asses out there.

"So we're immediately up and out, off through the sewers. But when we get out to the canal…" She shuddered visibly. "It was like a scene straight out of those horror stories parents tell their children so they'll behave." Her voice grew soft with the old terror. "Masser and Secunda were full that night, and in the eerie moonlight, you could see it all so clearly…"

"See what?" I prodded, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. And it wasn't the whiskey.

"There was a charred, still-burning body in the canal, with a head of fiery red hair," Vex said, so quietly I had to strain to hear her. "There was a half-burned rope about its neck, and the railing above held the other half. And the body… the body wore Thieves Guild armor, so there were only two men it could have been." Another pause, another draught. "Delvin was telling Brynjolf to wait in the Ratway, guard our backs, 'cause he was maybe sixteen at the time. Too young to see his brother's corpse in the canal. Though are you ever really old enough for that?"

She didn't take the time to ponder that morbid thought. "Raynor and Brynjolf, though, they were…" She snorted. "…pardon the pun, but thick as thieves. Best friends. Brynjolf… little baby Brynjolf, as his brother called him… wasn't himself for months after. That's when he earned his other nickname, the one every lowlife in the city knows him as." She glanced pointedly to me, knowing I knew exactly what she meant.

"Big, bad Brynjolf," I muttered.

Vex waggled her eyebrows over the rim of her glass. "Aye, that. So what Thrynn was saying was: do we really want to push Brynjolf over the edge _twice? _Even Thieves aren't so cold. So thank Nocturnal, thank your lucky stars, thank your ancestors, I don't care. But thank _something_ that the Guild doesn't have to go through that man's wrath twice. We got another taste of it right after we ran you out of town and sweet Mara…!" She shook her head. "Reminded me why people can be scared of the man."

I couldn't wrap my mind around it. Sweet, stubborn, good-natured Brynjolf, terrifying? Was it even _possible?_

"And if we had to go through it again," Vex continued, unperturbed by my silence, "it just might be the thing that finally tears us apart."


	40. The Madness of the Outsiders

**Cynric was being stubborn and refused to be written, but I finally managed to twist his arm into this :3**

**As always, a big thank you to all you readers, lurkers, and reviewers :)**

**And to the non-PM crowd:**

**LiveLaughLove: Thank you :) I love Vex as well, figured she needed a story that fit her cold personality. And good luck with the ditch! :D**

**Aledis: Thank you :) And take your time, friend. The story isn't going anywhere, and neither is Tiberia**

**And here… we… Go.**

**-)**

"Well gentlemen," I said glancing about the table from Delvin Mallory, to Mercer Frey, to Rune, and back again, "it's been fun, but I think it's time we ended this." And I laid down a royal flush with a smirk.

It was a few days after my impromptu Guild history lesson with Vex, and I had been playing the infamous Daggerfall high stakes poker all afternoon with these three. And I say infamous because it's technically banned within the Empire, just like how worship of the House of Troubles is technically illegal in Morrowind. It doesn't really stop anyone, but makes the aristocrats feel better about themselves. As a matter of fact, it probably makes _both_ more popular. The four of us were sitting at Delvin's usual table in the Flagon, drinking stale ale and upping the ante every chance we got. The pot sitting in the middle of the table was up to almost a thousand Septims by now.

Rune's hands flew to either side of his head, his expression of shock utterly priceless. Delvin was half-laughing, half-just-staring, and Mercer jaw was probably going to need re-hinging. "_How?!" _the Guildmaster asked, disbelief plain on his face.

"I guess the Dark Lady just likes me," I quipped.

"I guess so," Delvin agreed with a snort, pushing the pot towards me.

"Hold on," I said to him, then trained my gaze on the Guildmaster. "Keep your coin, Mercer. I'll be taking Dawnbreaker back." I beckoned to the aging Guildmaster with my first two fingers.

That was the beauty of Daggerfall poker—you could swap out coin for one of the more useful items on a person. Mercer grumbled something about 'damnable Dunmer,' but nevertheless stood and unbuckled his swordbelt. "Just take the damn thing," he groused, laying the sheathed blade the thick strip of leather on the table. "I find it unbalanced, anyway."

"Much obliged, Guildmaster," I said with a sarcastic wink, now finally collecting the pot.

Delvin was snickering at the whole exchange. "Not how you prefer to take off your belt around a pretty girl, 'ey Mercer?"

Brynjolf's voice wafted over from the Ratway entrance. "If it's my lass he's around, he'd better keep it _this _way!"

Rune and Delvin both howled with laughter, and Mercer just rolled his eyes, but I was honestly surprised. Since my rather cold reception back into the Cistern (Mercer even ordered me sleep in one of the alcoves out in the Flagon to ease more than a few troubled minds), I had been reinstated by various members with the traditional cuff upside the head and honest half-warning, half-threat not to do anything like that ever again. Also since my reinstatement, I hadn't seen much of Brynjolf. I wasn't sure if he was avoiding me—or why—but I've learned with Nords that they'll come around on their own time, and not a moment before. _I guess he's come around, then, _noted the voice in the back of my head dully. _Though what's got him so territorial?_

I got my answer when he came 'round the corner with someone I'd never seen before in my life. He was a pale, stocky Breton, blond-haired and blue-eyed, looking rather contrite next to a poker-faced and civilian-garbed Brynjolf. And then, it hit me. "Found us a New Blood, 'ey Brynjolf?" I asked with a smirk.

"Junior member, girl," Delvin corrected with a laugh. "You're talking like a Companion."

"I'm the Harbinger," I scoffed. "I should think I would!"

"Who _have _you found us, Brynjolf?" Mercer cut in smoothly.

"This is Etienne Rarnis," Bryn said, jerking his chin at the Breton standing on his right. "I caught him trying to pick my pocket earlier."

Rune let out a "Bad idea!"

I snorted. "So you brought him to the Flagon? _Brilliant, Bryn!" _

Delvin was laughing, and Mercer shot Brynjolf a look to temper steel. "Why _did _you bring him to the Flagon, Brynjolf?"

"Because," Brynjolf continued, amazingly patient throughout all of these interruptions, "when I told him to turn out his pockets, _this _happened."

Etienne shoved his hands in his pockets and came free loaded with Septims and even a gemstone or two. Delvin let out a low whistle. "That's quite a haul, lad," the old Breton commented. "Must've taken all morning."

"Yeah, then he picked the wrong mark to pickpocket," Rune observed with a laugh.

Brynjolf rolled his eyes. "There's a reason I keep up the harmless merchant act. Though not one you'd understand, Rune."

There was a collective snort from our table. "You planning on putting him through a trial soon," Mercer began flatly, sizing up Etienne, "or will you just end up sleeping with this recruit, too?"

I choked on the ale I'd been in the process of swallowing, and Delvin clapped me on the back saying, "Judging by her reaction, I'd say it's not like that, Guildmaster."

"Not yet," Rune said in a teasing singsong.

"I don't have to vindicate myself to you people," Brynjolf snapped.

Delvin laughed. "Nope, just the lass."

"Nah, I'm all right!" I interrupted sarcastically, still coughing. "No worries!"

"Oh you're _fine_, Dragonborn," Mercer growled at me, and then returned his attention to Brynjolf. "Most of the recruits you've found us have ended up dead, Brynjolf. And the one that didn't, we ran out of town."

"She came back," Brynjolf pointed out after a beat pause, gesturing to me and sounding very much like Farkas in the honestly-stating-the-obvious department.

Mercer threw up his hands in exasperation. "_Fine, _boy! What did you have in mind?"

"Vex was going to have me run a Shill job in Ivarstead," Brynjolf replied, suddenly all business and sounding very much like Vilkas. "Figured I'd just hand it off to the kid."

"Not a bad idea, that," Delvin commented, leaning back in his chair, looking from Mercer to Bryn to Etienne and back again.

Mercer sized up the New Blood once more and then said, "So do it."

Brynjolf's good-natured smirk cut through his poker face. "Right, then." Then he glanced to the table. "Were you playing Daggerfall poker?"

We nodded, and it was Etienne who asked, "Who won?"

"She did," Rune said, gesturing unnecessarily to me. (I was the only 'she' at the damn table.)

"Nice work," Brynjolf commented with a grin, clapping me on the shoulder. And then he noticed what was in the pot. "You got your sword back, eh?" At my nod, he just laughed. "Clever, lass."

"Bloody thing is unbalanced anyway," Mercer griped. "But now I'm back to the issue of having no weapon…"

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist," I scoffed. "I'll forge you another Dwarven blade once I get my hands on the ingots."

"You can smith Dwarven?" Delvin asked, trying (and failing) to sound unimpressed.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, I've forged all the way up to Daedric, but..."

"Why am I not surprised?" Rune commented dryly.

I paused, the back end of my previous sentence forgotten. "By Azura, I never made that connection…"

I could hear Brynjolf's hearty, scorn-less laugh all the way back into the Cistern

-)

That night, the first I'd spent in the Cistern in more than a month, I jerked myself out of a nightmare and rolled clean off my bed. I was mere inches away from introducing my face to the floor when someone caught me. "Whoa there, Tiberia," said my unexpected savior. "Easy!"

My eyes snapped open, finding their mark on Cynric Endell. For once, his hood was down, revealing a head of brown, close-cropped hair, and the Breton was eyeing me with a fair amount of confusion and concern, his blue eyes raking my face, searching for something he wasn't going to find. "You alright?" he asked, carefully setting me down on the Cistern floor.

"Yeah, yeah," I said, brushing off the concern under the guise of fixing the braid I slept in. "Nice catch."

His lips quirked into a smile, and I realized I'd never seen one on him before. "You were thrashing about in your sleep, you know," he said conversationally, rocking back onto his haunches. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah," I said, trying to clear my mind of the horrific images burned into it from my dreams. "Just a nightmare."

Cynric was quiet a moment. "I'm no Brynjolf," he finally said, "but if you wanna talk, I'll listen."

I was so taken aback it took a moment to formulate an answer. "You don't want to hear it, Cynric."

He smirked. "If I didn't, I wouldn't have offered." He stood now, and offered a hand. "Come on. Let's get you into the light."

A few minutes later we sat at the edge of one of the docks over Lake Honrich, and I was whisked back to the first time Brynjolf and I had done this. "Is this Guild tradition, or something?"

Cynric snorted. "Unofficially, maybe. We all need out of the sewers sometimes." He trained his gaze on me, now. "So tell me, Tiberia—what has _you_ so terrified you felt the need to attack the floor?"

I snorted. "I have a lot of nightmares, Cynric. And there's this one that keeps coming back."

"The Nine are trying to tell you something," he said simply. Then his brow furrowed. "Or the Daedra, sorry."

"Maybe." I shrugged. "Stranger things have happened."

More silence. "Get on with it, Dragonborn. You'll feel better. Promise."

I winced. "Please don't use my titles. Come on; you know me as Tiberia. That hasn't changed just because you now know I can set something on fire with my _voice._"

Cynric laughed. "You could do that anyway!" And then the mirth died. "All right, Dra—_Ty_, sorry. No titles."

I sighed, my head in my hands. "You'll think I'm mad."

Cynric shot me a look. "I am a son of the Forsworn," he scoffed. "I think I'm used to madness."

_Well, there went my trump card. _"It's always the same, my friend," I said quietly. "Always the same… The dragons who's souls I've devoured… they talk to me, shout at me. In here." I tapped my sternum, right where my heart would be.

Cynric's eyebrow rose to his hairline. "In here?" He clarified, tapping the same spot.

"Aye, there. And they always say the same thing: _Brit, Bruniik, Bronsefahliil. Brit, Bruniik, Bronsefahliil…" _I shook my head, as though that would clear the chant from my mind. "Beautiful, savage, Nord-Elf, the dragons call me."

"As apt a description for you as any," Cynric noted.

"I suppose." I didn't feel much like arguing, for once in my life. "But after the _Dov _die down, I hear my ancestors, and their chant is far worse. _Coward, murderer, betrayer, kinkiller. Coward, murderer, betrayer, kinkiller. _And now, I see my mother, and Cyrano, and Mercer, and Ulfric Stormcloak…" I shook my head, trying to blot it all out. "And they're all ghosts, just like my ancestors. They haunt me, just like my ancestors. But I don't know how to appease them."

Cynric was quiet a moment. "Have you ever tried to divine your dreams, Tiberia?" he asked carefully.

I shook my head. "I've never had a head for it. Though I'm guessing you do?"

The bowman shrugged. "My mother was the wise woman of our Forsworn encampment. I picked up a thing or two over the years." Our gazes locked. "But I can tell you right now, it isn't going to be pretty."

"Nothing in my life ever is," I sighed. "Go ahead."

Cynric raised his gaze to the stars and pondered what I'd told him a moment. "Isn't Cyrano that High Elf you dueled at Tonilia's wedding?" I nodded. "What prompted that?"

"We were engaged, once. As a political ploy by my mother and my oldest sister, Neva." I was looking heavenward now, too. The stars over Lake Honrich were always so beautiful. "He was cruel, he was ruthless. He spewed lies and loathing. And I hated him."

"Understandable, then," Cynric began cautiously, "that you'd kill him. Especially since men like that don't give up what they believe to be theirs easily." At my uneasy nod, he said, "Murderer, then, is self-explanatory."

It had never occurred to me to put the people and the labels together.

"And coward..." Cynric paused a moment, then winced at what would undoubtedly be a harsh way to look at it. "Well, don't elves teach loyalty and a duty to one's family?" I nodded again. "And if you take it that your mother is the embodiment of your family, then the elf in you thinks you cowardly for running away from the Summerset Isles."

"I was," I replied quietly. "I just couldn't take it."

Cynric sighed. "It's nasty no matter which way you look at it, Ty. And… I'm sorry, what else did you say? Betrayer, I think was one…?" I confirmed it, and so he continued. "Well, Mercer's in charge of the Guild, and we felt betrayed when it finally came out that you were Dragonborn. Maybe that?"

I had barely opened my mouth to crack a retort when Cynric hastily added, "Tiberia, I don't blame you!"

I blinked in recoil, fury forgotten. "You don't?"

"No, I could never." Cynric shook his head. "Not when I've done the same thing."

Instantly, I knew. "You never told them you're Forsworn." It was meant to be a question. Didn't quite come out that way.

"No, never." He stared down at the lapping waves of Lake Honrich, as though the dark water held the meaning of life. "You've seen how Nords treat outsiders. And even though I've never raised a sword against a man who didn't deserve it, a lot of them only see me as a Son of the Reach. So when I got to the Guild, I never mentioned I was born in Skyrim. I was just a Breton, an ex-jailbreaker, an archer."

"Your skill set doesn't match the Forsworn much," I noted dryly.

Cyrnic's smile was rueful. "And now you see why I left the Reach."

We sat there in silence a moment, an unspoken bond forming between us. It reminded me waking up in the Cistern after Brynjolf, Vex, and Delvin had broken me out of the Thalmor Embassy and finding Niruin keeping watch. We'd never really been friends, and yet here he was, looking out for me. "Cynric, why _are _you here?" I asked quietly.

He knew what I meant "Because, Guildsister, that's what family _does. _We look out for each other."He didn't let me dwell on his words. "What was that last bit of the chant you mentioned?"

"Kinkiller," I replied uneasily. "And standing before me is Ulfric Stormcloak."

Cynric rocked back to his haunches, and for the longest time said nothing, only peered out over the lake. "You discovered recently he is your kin, yes?"

The reply was so acidic I was amazed he wasn't poisoned. "Unfortunately."

"Peace, Guildsister." The bowman held up both hands, palms out. "I can think of two reasons for that. One, everyone knows the Dovahkiin was a Stormcloak General. How many elves did you kill under his command, eh?"

I winced. "Too many."

"So, there's that. Or, the second option…" Cynric trained his gaze on me now, watching to gauge my reaction. "The second option is that _he _is the kinkiller. Or will be."


	41. The Warp and Weft

**Hey all you readers, lurkers and reviewers :) Once again, a big thank you to the lot of ya.**

**And, as usual:**

**Aledis: Just tell me when you're finished; I'll be excited to see it :) and what does it mean? You shall see :3**

**Hey-oh, let's go.**

**-)**

It was a few days later that I sauntered into the Ragged Flagon with Etienne in tow, singing at the top of my lungs the song that used to be the bane of my existence:

"_Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin,_

_Naal ok zin, los vahriin,_

_Wah dien vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal!"_

I sang in Draconic because I was sick of strangling the Thu'um. It is meant to be used often, and powerfully. And though the _Song of the Dragonborn _was a poor substitute for Shouting, it was better than not using the Voice at all. The Thu'um pulsed in my spirit with the rhythm, soothed for the moment. The Flagon's usual patrons were laughing at my sudden elevation in mood, but confused just the same. Tonilia even joined in for the next lines, her thick, rich alto a compliment to my sturdy Mezzo:

"…_Ahrk fin norok paal graan,_

_Fod nust hon zindro zaan…"_

Delvin hauled himself up onto his feet and strode towards me as Tonilia, Vex, and I finished out the familiar melody:

"_Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal!"_

"Tiberia, Mercer's been looking all over for you," the old Breton informed me. "Best get into the Cistern. He's already in a fine mood today."

I winced. Mercer is not someone that I, as a general rule, like to piss off. "Right, then."

I cautiously pushed the door to the Cistern open, still humming the _Song of the Dragonborn _as I strode over to Mercer's desk. "Tiberia, where _have _you been all morning?!" Mercer barked when I drew near.

"Been training the Whelp," I replied with more bite than intended, the melody dropping off. "He might not get himself killed in a knife fight now."

"Good to hear," came Brynjolf's voice from somewhere over my shoulder. "And you wanted to see me, Guildmaster?"

"Good, now that you're _both _here, maybe we can finally get something done around here," Mercer growled. He had a scowl to rival a dragon's at this point, which he leveled at his subordinate and his Second. "Since the both of you are familiar with the fiasco involving Gulum-Ei in Solitude, I think I can skip that, yes?"

My blood boiled at the memory. That blasted lizard was the reason I got arrested by the Thalmor. "Oblivion take him," I growled.

"Yes, well." Mercer continued with an eyebrow cocked. "He's still got information we need. Big, bad Brynjolf…" I felt the Nord on my right snap to attention at the mention of his nickname. "…I was going to send _you _to Solitude to take care of this. But then I realized, I'm not sending _any_ of my operatives after that slimy bastard alone—not after what happened the last time. Nor would I try to deny the woman some well-deserved revenge." He gestured to me. "So the both of you are going to Solitude."

"About time I got some good, old-fashioned revenge on the fetcher," I growled, slamming a fist into my open palm.

"We can't have him dead, Tiberia," Mercer warned, and my shoulders slumped.

"Where's the fun in that!?" I groused.

Mercer ignored that. "The Emperor's cousin, Vittoria Vici, is getting married in a week. And Gulum-Ei, of course, will be in attendance. The two of you will pose as wedding guests, and do a bit of Guild-style convincing while the city is celebrating."

"That's bloody brilliant," Brynjolf commented conversationally.

Mercer just spread his arms wide. "Why do you think _I'm _the one in charge, boy? Now hurry up and head out; you're already cutting it awful close to get to Solitude in time as it is."

Brynjolf and I snapped into action before the Guildmaster had even finished speaking. The whole Cistern, however, heard his rasping, whetstone-on-a-blade bass finish out, "Dragonborn, for your blessing we pray…"

-)

"We spend way too much time in the saddle, ever notice that?" Brynjolf remarked to me one afternoon as we were out on the road.

After shoving a few sundries into some knapsacks, Brynjolf and I had taken off for Solitude on the same horses we'd left Whiterun with, ironically. We had been on the road for almost a week now, riding hard and fast for the capital. Currently, we were just leaving the marshes of Hjaalmarch behind us, and therefore right on schedule to arrive in Solitude tonight.

"I suppose," I replied with a half-laugh, half-shrug. "I don't hate it so much as you seem to, though."

Brynjolf just shot me a look. "I can only imagine why."

I smirked. "It's the closest I'll ever get to pounding across Skyrim as the Beast again."

His brow furrowed, and then he realized, "You're a werewolf?"

"No, but I once was," I replied swiftly, cutting off anything else he may have said. "Have I ever told you about some of the crazier Daedric quests?"

It was wonderful not to have to watch everything I said anymore. Brynjolf and I had been trading stories most of the way here, and it felt good to speak as Dragonborn. There was no longer any need to hide under a façade or barrier. I was entirely honest, for the first time in gods-know-how-long.

"…And that's how I became Sanguine's champion," I wrapped up the story just as we were heading up the hill to Solitude. The moons were out, darkness had fallen, and the poor stable master was already overworked, trying to rein in all these extra beasts in town for Vici's wedding. I felt almost guilty handing him two more.

"You got into a drinking contest with a _Daedra!?" _Brynjolf exclaimed. "By the bloody Nine! I would think you had more sense than _that!"_

"Hey, in my defense," I began as I handed the reins over to the stable master, "he wasn't in full Daedric form. He just looked like a man, same as you or anyone else. _And _he talked like a Nord. 'Come drink with me; make your ancestors proud!'"

Brynjolf was just shaking his head as we headed up the hill and into the city. "You truly are mad."

I grinned. "Don't tell me you just now figured that out."

"I haven't, don't you worry." He kept a miraculously straight face as he held the inn door open for me. "Devout of Sheogorath, and all that."

I made a face in his general direction, which was greeted with a similarly stupid rebuttal. Honestly, put the two of us together, and we were like children. I was amazed Mercer trusted us to do much more than sweep the Flagon, let alone threaten Gulum-Ei for information. I paid the innkeeper for a room as Brynjolf began to work the crowd. I watched him in his element a moment, impressed despite the fact I'd seen him schmooze hundreds of times. The man had charisma, charm, and the distinct glamour of the shadows—it was almost hypnotizing to witness. (And this was coming from someone he worked with, not one of his hapless victims.)

I caught his eye and nodded almost imperceptibly. He fell in step behind me by the time I reached the top of the stairs, and it wasn't until we were behind a wall with a securely locked door that he spoke. "Gulum-Ei hasn't been seen around the tavern for a while, now," Brynjolf informed me as I shrugged off my knapsack and set it down on the desk in the corner.

"Coward won't even show his face around town anymore," I spat, unlacing my bracers and setting them atop my boots, which were already standing guard by the door. "Everyone knows he had to go running to the elves when the big, bad Thieves Guild came for him."

"I think there's more to it than that," Brynjolf replied, setting his own boots next to mine with a thunk.

"Oh?" I turned to face him now, my bare heels planted firmly on the ground, my arms folded across my torso. "You think the Thalmor scared him off?"

Brynjolf shrugged. "It's a possibility we can't overlook."

"'Thieves don't believe in coincidence,'" I quoted him.

The smile the cut his face was genuine. "So you _have _been listening."

I snorted. " Of course I've..." I was cut off by a kiss.

Well, not so much a kiss as a fervent repossession of my face. Still no sparks, still no epiphanies, I noted. Just me, Bryn, and some good old-fashioned spit swapping. Sweet Meridia, I had missed this! "Been meaning to do that for _far _too long, now," Brynjolf admitted, breaking us just far enough apart to speak.

I snorted. "So what took you so long?"

He emitted a short, barking laugh. "The fact that I was pretty _furious _with you for a while, there…"

"Oh, yeah…" I felt my face break into a smile. "Something about this Dragonborn nonsense, wasn't it…?"

"Sacred tradition, Ty. _Sacred tradition!"_

"So is clan necromancy, but you don't see _that _tangling up my life."

Brynjolf paused a moment before retorting, "I don't think I want to know…"

I gently clocked him upside the head as I broke us apart. "Ancestor worship, stupid."

"Oh, right. Your Dunmer half…" Brynjolf was just laughing, now. "You're all mad."

"Sheogorath's children!" I called over my shoulder as I made my way over to the desk.

I felt his arms slide around my waist. "I thought Dark Elves were the Children of Azura?"

"Her, too," I agreed, setting my things in order for tomorrow morning. The wedding began at ten in the morning, and I wanted to make sure everything was ready to go before then. "The Daedra in general, really."

"That explains so much, and yet nothing at all." He let go.

I yawned. "Congratulations, you've figured out how the Daedra work."

"Tired there, love?" Brynjolf quipped from across the room, and I'm fairly certain my heart stopped.

"No," I replied defiantly as it started itself again, though the sentence was punctuated with another yawn.

He laughed again, still hearty and scorn-less. "Just go to bed, Ty. You'll need to be somewhat _alert _tomorrow…"

I shot him a dagger-like look from across the room. "What, want to repeat the Ivarstead incident so soon?" The only room the innkeeper had available had—surprise—one bed.

Brynjolf shrugged, and I could tell he was trying very hard not to laugh. "I didn't find that nearly as uncomfortable as you did, apparently. Even though I was the one sleeping blanket-less half the time…"

"I mostly just like giving you shit for it," I admitted with a laugh, wriggling out of my cuirass. I now stood in my leggings and undershirt, tying to ignore the uncontrollable shivers racking my frame. I laid my cuirass over my things on the desk, making sure it would be out of range of any creepy-crawlies on the floor.

"You're good at it," Brynjolf shot back.

I slid under the covers now, still shivering. "I should be, after all these years as the youngest child."

"That reminds me…" There a sudden infusion of heat at my side, and I didn't need to turn to realize he'd followed my lead. "…You have the one sister who's a Thalmor, and the other who's in the Dark Brotherhood… any others the Guild should be worried about?"

I turned to face him anyway, scrutinizing his face for signs of… well, I'm still not sure what, just that it had to do with his earlier comment. "No, there are only three Morwyn sisters."

"Can't say I'm not relieved there, lass. Those two seem like… well…" His face flushed.

I smiled softly, sadly. "Neva's a bitch; you don't have to dance around it. But Avalon…" I sighed. "Avalon looked after me. Gave me a lot of shit growing up, but that's just what sisters _do. _She and I were close, before I was sent to the Summerset Isles."

"And after?" Brynjolf asked quietly.

"There is no after." I sounded choked up. "I haven't been to Morrowind since."

Brynjolf pulled me tight against his chest. I realized he wasn't wearing his armor anymore, either. In more ways than one. "You grew up there, then?"

I nodded, and my voice was somewhat muffled as it came from my new vantage point. "Clan Redoran traditionally lives close to the Morrowind-Skyrim border, and House Morwyn, especially."

Brynjolf kissed the top of my head. "No wonder you ended up here."

"I ended up here by accident," I yawned. "I stayed because of the Companions. But with my parents dead, and my sisters in Skyrim, too, there's nothing for me in the homeland…"

"All the more reason to stick with the Guild, then." He said Guild; he meant himself.

"Was it you who said to treat the Guild like a family?" I asked, damn well knowing the answer.

"Probably," he answered after a moment. "But it's no substitute for blood, I know."

I was half-asleep by now. "Vex told me about your brother, you know. The night after my trial. And I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

I felt him tense up, and then forcibly relax. "She shouldn't have told you…"

"I should have known ages ago," I argued.

He let out a worn breath, and captured my mouth again, but this time more gently and slowly than he usually did. This time reminded me that I didn't have to be the battle-hardened, bruised and scarred, almighty Dragonborn _all _the time. "Go to sleep, Little Elf," he murmured.

"Even you don't get to call me that," I mumbled through the veil of Vaermina's realm.

No, the warrior that was the Dragonborn had been cast aside for the moment, as had the vulpine problem-solver that was the Second-in-Command of the Riften Thieves Guild. For the moment, we didn't even have to be Harbinger and Big, Bad Brynjolf. Nope, this was just Bryn and Ty.

And I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel right, and yet terrify me at the same time.


	42. Getting Away With Murder

**So, school's starting soon. I do not approve of this madness. And also that means I'll be updating way less soon. (it'll still be fairly regular because I write like a fiend, but probably not every day)**

**Regardless, thank you all you readers, lurkers, and reviewers for your support :)**

**And to the non-PM crowd:**

**Aledis: Haha I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter so much :) I figured those two were overdue for one, anyway :)**

**And so we go.**

**-)**

The morning of the Snow-Shod/Vici wedding dawned breezy and cold. The winds blowing in off the coast of Solitude cut through to a person's bones, and the Skyrim winter chill had not yet run its course. I offered up a silent prayer of thanks to whichever Daedra were listening that fur was commonplace in this province. I'd be needing it.

I shivered again, violently, and nuzzled up against Brynjolf, who smirked and slid an arm around my waist, but didn't take his eyes off the crowd. We were standing at the back of said crowd, for exactly that reason (easy surveying). The wedding took place just outside the Temple of the Nine Divines (although there were only eight shrines inside at the moment…), inside Castle Dour. The bride, a pretty Imperial woman by the name of Vittora Vici, was all smiles as the Priest of Mara joined their souls. The groom, a lovesick Nord I'd seen around Riften—Asgeir Snow-Shod—was just looking like he couldn't believe his luck.

"You wouldn't think an _Argonian _could hide very well around here," Brynjolf groused under his breath.

"You also wouldn't think an Imperial and a Stormcloak could entertain the thought of marri…" I began, then cut myself off with a hissed, "Wait, there! Right next to Jarl Elisif!" I'd recognize that betrayer anywhere.

"Aye, that's him, alright. Slimy bastard…" I could practically feel the hate dripping from his words. "Thinks he's safe if he's standing next to the Jarl…"

"We need a distraction," I interrupted. "A way to pull him aside and make him talk."

"Lass, please." Brynjolf shot me a look. "Making people talk is what I do best. And distracting is what _you _do best, is it not?"

I snorted. "I'd prefer not to draw attention to myself in Solitude. Stormcloak general, remember?"

"Oh, right." He slammed his palm into his forehead. "I keep forgetting, the Dragonborn's got a hand in _everything _that goes on in Skyrim."

I grinned hugely. "That's not entirely my fault, you know…"

The rest of whatever I'd been about to say was cut off when Vici, now standing on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, shouted, "Honored guests!"

She sliced through the buzzing of general chatter like a blade through the twilight.

"My friends, I just wanted to take the time to thank you all for being here."

"Well, we wanted a distraction…" Brynjolf muttered forlornly.

"This is going to be _painfully _idealistic," I agreed.

"I want to thank you all for sharing this wonderfully happy day with myself, and my new husband," Vici continued, flashing a warm smile towards Asgeir. "In this courtyard, there are no Stormcloaks. There are no Imperials. There are only…" An elven arrow through the throat quickly silenced her pretty little speech.

There was the silence of complete shock in the courtyard a moment, and then someone shouted, "Murdered! The bride's been murdered!"

Not ones to pass up golden opportunities, Brynjolf and I took full advantage of the ensuing chaos. We exchanged a look and a shrug, then made our way over to Gulum-Ei's hiding place. He saw us coming from a mile away, but he had his back (literally and figuratively) against the wall. Nowhere to run. In the chaos, Brynjolf clamped one hand down on the Argonian's arm, leading him out of the courtyard and no one paid them any attention. I couldn't help but follow the arrow's trajectory backwards as I tailed them, trying to figure out what had just happened.

And then, I saw it. A flash of red-and-black Shrouded Armor as its owner ran across the battlements. "This was a Brotherhood contract," I hissed to Brynjolf, whipping my head back around.

"Sweet Mara!" exclaimed Gulum-Ei.

"Did I give you permission to speak, you miserable whoreson?" Brynjolf growled at the captive Argonian (who immediately shrank back from his fury).

Brynjolf led our motley crew just past the main gate to Solitude as the city went up in arms, and forcefully slammed Gulum-Ei against the wall a few paces down the hill. "Do you know the price of treachery within the Guild?" he growled, hefting Mehrunes' Razor out of his boot and leveling it between the Argonian's eyes. His other hand pinned Gulum-Ei to the wall by the throat.

"I can assure you, it's far more than thirty pieces of silver," I hissed, drawing my own dagger out of my boot—an enchanted Dwarven masterpiece—and calling upon my magicka for a shock spell.

"I had no choice!" Gulum-Ei whimpered, his wide, terrified eyes going from me, to Brynjolf, and back again. "You understand, yes? The Thalmor do not tolerate…!"

_"The Thieves Guild does not tolerate traitors!" _Brynjolf interrupted fiercely.

_So this is the big, bad Brynjolf that every thug in the Rift is terrified of, _I observed dryly. _Duly noted. _

"The Thieves Guild is a group of backwater thieves living in the sewers!" Gulum-Ei scoffed, all bravado now.

Thoroughly annoyed, I nudged Brynjolf and he had the good sense to get out of the way. Several of my throwing daggers flew through the air the instant the Nord cleared my range, all of them finding their marks around the scaly bastard. The result pinned him to the wall by his clothes. "Tough talk, coming from a man whose life I could end with a word," I snapped, toying with the balance of my Dwarven dagger. "Or a lousy shot."

Gulum-Ei leveled an 'are you shitting me?!' glare at Brynjolf. "You've brought your _date _to the party? That'll make a good impression, boy."

"I meant it literally," I hissed, drawing breath to call upon a Thu'um that would injure—but not kill—this miserable piece of shit. But then, I thought of an even better idea. "_Faas ru maar!" _

The boom that accompanied a Shout rang out, and Gulum-Ei was desperately struggling against his impromptu prison, but the daggers' purchase in the wall was too deep. His eyes were wide with terror, utter dismay coloring his features. "Taste of my Thu'um, mortal, and weep," growled the _dovah _in me.

He was crying now, and I winced. Maybe using all three words had been a bit of overkill… But he'd deserved it. "You owe us information, _milk-drinker," _Brynjolf informed him. "Feel like talking yet, or shall the lass just Shout again?"

Gulum-Ei was silent, and so I drew in another breath in preparation to Shout something else. But just the sound of me drawing in breath was enough to make the Argonian crack. "I was approached by a Dark Elf woman, she gave me a bag of gold, told me to broker the sale of Goldenglow Estate. I didn't know her name until after the transaction, and by then, the Thalmor had found me!"

"What _was _her name?" I prodded.

"Karliah," Gulum-Ei sobbed. "The name was Karliah…"

The knowledge actually staggered Brynjolf. "You lie!"

Gulum-Ei vehemently shook his head. "No, no! I swear it! She called herself Karliah! But I thought that was the woman who murdered the previous Guildmaster…?"

"It was," I growled, and then I put the puzzle together. "And now she's after Mercer."

"Oh!" Gulum-Ei was dangerously close to fainting.

Brynjolf clocked him upside the head, probably sensing the same thing I was. "Did she say anything else?"

Gulum-Ei shook his head. "Just that she was going 'where the end began' to meet your Mercer Frey. Please, I beg you, I didn't know…!"

"Shut up," I barked, silencing the blubbering Argonian.

I hefted my dagger, weighing my options. Mercer told us not to kill him, and I was _seriously pissed _at that order. I debated deliberately ignoring orders, but it was _Mercer Frey _I'd be answering to. Not worth it. Taking Gulum-Ei's life was not worth mine. In the end, it wasn't my call—it was the Second's.

"Mercer said he didn't care what became of you," Brynjolf mused, almost conversationally. He toyed with the Razor a moment, playing the cards just right. He was lying through his teeth, and I knew it, and I _still _couldn't see through his poker face.

"_No!"_ Gulum-Ei was truly terrified, now. This had nothing to do with the Dismay Thu'um I'd barked at him earlier. This was the sort of fear a man felt when faced with his own death. "Please… you'll tell Frey I cooperated, won't you?"

"We'll tell Mercer whatever we damn well please," I interrupted through clenched teeth. "I see no reason to keep you alive, other than the fact that you're not worth the effort it would take to kill you."

"I agree with you there, lass." Brynjolf nodded to me.

"If I could get free of the Thalmor, I'd gladly take my old job back," Gulum-Ei proposed tentatively.

"Here's a thought," I snapped, "get an axe, and watch your _own_ tail."

I'd never known what color Argonians turn when they get queasy, but just then, I discovered it was a rather delicate shade of lilac purple. "I'm no warrior, Dragonborn."

I snorted. "Yes_, clearly."_

"If the Guild were to offer you protection," Brynjolf cut in, dangerously smooth, "an arrangement would have to be made between you and the Guildsister you wronged."

"Of course," the Argonian agreed quickly. He looked to me in open supplication, his eyes pleading. "Dragonborn, what say you?"

"I say," I said, absentmindedly testing the weight of the dagger at my fingertips. _Too heavy. I miss the Razor. _"You would need to: one, break any and all ties to the Thalmor you have. Two, pay double your previous merchandise tithe to the Guild. Three, act as our fence in Solitude. And four, keep your head down and your nose out of trouble, or _so help me Azura…!" _I shook my head, then collected my thoughts. "Should you break any of these tenants, you won't be answering to Brynjolf or me." I reaffirmed my grip on my dagger. "It'll be Mercer Frey himself. Do we have an agreement?"

"Aye!" the Argonian whimpered immediately. "We are agreed."

"Wonderful," Brynjolf interjected, tugging my daggers out of the wall, one-by-one, and handing them back to me.

Gulum-Ei fell to the ground, his shoulders sagging in relief. "You won't regret this, I swear it!"

"If we hear so much as a rumor you've been dealing with the Thalmor…" I began.

"You won't!" Gulum-Ei shook his head violently. "I will break ties, I will…"

Brynjolf was done with this whimpering lizard. "Just shut up and get out of our sight, you son of bitch."

Gulum-Ei practically tripped over his own feet in his haste to get back to the city and away the thieves he had so infuriated. Brynjolf and I watched him go in silence, but then he turned to me and merely said, "We make a good team, I'd say."

I nodded, pondering this. "We do, don't we?" I agreed after a moment. "I'm seeing a long and prosperous future ahead of us, my friend." I paused, letting my imagination run a moment. "Maybe one day we'll be as infamous as Mercer and Karliah were, way back when, eh?"

Brynjolf's genuine, crooked smile was back, chasing away the last remnants of the terror he'd been only moments ago. "Aye, or my parents."

Just then, the main gate to Solitude opened yet again, and a figure came bursting out of the chaos. A figured dressed in telltale red and black armor that accented grey-blue skin and fierce Dunmeri, cherry-red eyes. A figure I'd seen weeping when I departed for the Summerset Isles. A figure that had, more recently, broken my oldest sister out of Riftweald Manor. But I could hardly fault her for that; her job required loyalty to nothing more than the currant Client.

"Avalon!" I called. "Sweet Meridia, that was you, wasn't it? The one who killed Vittoria Vici?"

"Hello, sister dear!" the middle sister called warmly, not breaking stride as she bolted down the hill. "We really _must _catch up soon—but not while I'm running for my life, please!"

"Avalon; _Avalon!" _I called, louder.

Against her nature, she stopped running, catching my hand and squeezing it tight. "What, Tiberia?"

"What are you doing?" I squeezed back, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to get her attention. "You were born under the Sign of the Shadow!"

You would have thought I dropped her in the Sea of Ghosts, her expression was so shocked. "By the Nine, I'm a bloody idiot…" She drew in a deep breath, searching inside herself for the magic older than Men or Mer that Birthsigns were hewn from. "Ah well, this is why you're the clever one, Tiberia."

My brow furrowed. _"Neva's_ the clever one."

Avalon rolled her eyes, and I could see the magic taking hold. Her extremities were beginning to disappear, and the invisibility was slowly eating its way inward. "I meant between the two _sane _sisters." Her eyes flickered from me to the rather large Nord on my right, and back again. "Are you two courting?"

Oh, Avalon. Always so blunt, and to the point. It's why we got along so well. "Yeah," I told her.

Her eyes narrowed as her body continued to disappear, and she scrutinized his face a moment. Then she broke out into a grin. "He's cute; I approve!" I let out a short, barking, disbelieving laugh, but she wasn't done: "So where are you living now, little sister?"

"Riften," I said to her rapidly-disappearing frame.

"Close to the border, good call." She nodded approvingly. "I'll have to pay you a visit soon!" Our faces must have belied the surprise, because she quickly added, "That wasn't the Brotherhood talking; just the older sister!"

"…Don't _scare_ me like that," Brynjolf told her.

Avalon's face cracked into her dazzling smile just before she disappeared completely. "Oh yeah, he'll do just fine, I think."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Get out of here, sister."

"Might as well. Oh, and by the way…" Avalon's disembodied voice called as it bobbed down the slope. "If you happen to come across an Argonian in Brotherhood armor, tell him the Listener will meet him at the double-edged stone! He'll know what it means."

I gave the Stormcloak salute in her general direction. "You got it."

Her footsteps retreated into silence, and not for the first time (and certainly not for the last) I turned to Brynjolf only to find him staring at me in complete disbelief. "Is she always like that?" he asked carefully, jerking a thumb in the direction Avalon had run.

"Pretty much, yeah," I replied, still chuckling. "Avalon was always oddly happy for a Dark Elf."

Brynjolf's disbelieving expression only deepened. "Not to mention blunt."

I grinned. "No, that's just a Morwyn trait."

"Explains you," he quipped.

I didn't dignify that with a response.

He stole a quick kiss before we began the trek back into Solitude, but before we'd taken a few steps, a second red-and-black clad figured slipped out of the main gate. As it came closer, I realized it was an Argonian man, running as fast his legs could carry him. Made it almost comical when he spotted me, did a double-take, and stopped dead in his tracks. "Avalon…?"

"Her sister, Tiberia," I corrected.

"Oh." The green Argonian seemed relieved. "Well, I'm Veezara, another member of the Dark Brotherhood. Good to meet you. Have you seen the Listener anywhere…?"

"She ran that way." Brynjolf jerked his thumb in Avalon's general direction. "Disappeared under her Birthsign."

"She said she'd meet you at the double-edged stone," I added.

Veezara's face brightened, then darkened just as quickly. "Thank you… but her Birthsign?"

"She's a charge of The Shadow," I said, and he began to take off again. "Veezara!" He stopped dead in his tracks for the second time in the space of about five minutes. "Bottoms up!" I reached into the pack on my hip, and tossed him the milky-white potion bottle from within.

He caught it and delicately uncorked it. The smell hit him, and he broke out into a grin at the familiarity. "Divines bless the Morwyn family!" he called, and he drained the potion in one gulp. His body disappeared as the invisibility ate away at him, and soon even his footfalls were gone.

I heard an oh-so-familiar sound from beside me, and turned to find Brynjolf chuckling in disbelief. "I think we just aided a murder…"

"Nope, we just helped out a Morwyn and a friend of the family," I argued. "Besides, we have an alibi for the guards that will inevitably come looking for them and find us instead."

Brynjolf's eyebrow shot into his hairline. "And what would that be, lass?"

I grinned—"This."—and kissed him.

And Talos only knows how long _that _went on before a poor guard found us there and embarrassedly asked if we'd seen any Dark Brotherhood assassins running around.


	43. Rogue Whispers

**Hey all you readers, reviewers, and lurkers :) A big thank you to the lot of you, and have another chapter, eh?**

**And as always:**

**Aledis: Thank you :) The last chapter was a fun one.**

**Kazu: Thank you :) and I agree; Avalon is quite the character. And yeah, school is so frustrating…**

**And so we go.**

**-)**

"Snow-Veil Sanctum," Mercer breathed, his eyes wide, looking truly scared for the first and only time in the entirety that I'd known him. "Karliah's going to Snow-Veil Sanctum."

Brynjolf and I were back in Riften, a week after the disastrous wedding in Solitude and reporting all the happenings to the Guildmaster. (Well, all the Guild-related ones, anyway.) It had been one of the more eventful weeks of my life, to say the least. And things were only about to get a whole lot worse.

"'Where the end began,'" Brynjolf said, finally divining meaning from the Argonian's words. "Where Gallus was murdered, and you were supposed to be."

Mercer actually had to put a hand on his desk to steady himself. "Karliah never does anything half-assed, but…" He drew in a steadying breath. "She's someone I hoped to never cross paths with again. She betrayed everything this guild stood for, _murdered_ my predecessor in cold blood and now she's back to finish the job."

Brynjolf was treading lightly when he said, "We can take care of it, Mercer."

"_No!"_ Mercer's temper flared, and suddenly the crotchety old Guildmaster was back. "After all the time, resources, and effort we spent trying to track her down all those years ago, I'm going after her_ myself_. We were like partners… I know her techniques, her skills. If she kills me, there will be no one left who could possibly catch her." He paused, then seemed to reach his own conclusions. "Tiberia, suit up. You're coming with me."

That caught me off guard. "Why me?"

"Because not only are you the only one around here with any luck," Mercer began hotly, "the Dragonborn is well-known for delving into old Nordic Ruins."

Hard to argue with that logic. "Right away then, sir. By the way, before we left I forged you a new sword and enchanted it for you—devouring, I hope the old one was? Niruin was supposed to tell you…"

Mercer tapped his hip, and I realized he had his swordbelt back in place. The Dwarven sword I'd forged glinted in the candlelight, the faint glimmer of green magicka giving away its enchantment. "Beautiful piece of craftsmanship," he said approvingly. "Almost a pity you became a thief instead of a smithy."

It was the closest thing to a compliment I'd ever get out of Mercer Frey, I knew. "No money in that, I'm afraid."

Brynjolf let off a short, barking laugh, but it didn't disguise the worry in his eyes. It wasn't his place to question the Guildmaster, but he didn't like the idea of me going on this mission. "You'd both best watch yourselves," he said.

"Your elf will be fine, boy," Mercer snapped, as usual sizing up the situation for what it truly was, not what it appeared. "She's a killer, not a noblewoman."

Before either of us could retort, the door to the Cistern was flung open, and Vipir came in shouting, "Anyone seen Tiberia!?"

"No!" I shouted back.

Vipir was unamused as he reached the Guildmaster's desk. "Tiberia, there are two Companions a few miles north of the city. They're fighting a dragon and…"

"Which two?" I asked, suddenly all ears.

"Oh, I uh… I don't know." His face flushed. "I don't know the Companions by their faces, just their deeds…"

I waved off his impending apology. "Can you give me race, gender, approximate age…?"

"Oh, well uh…" Vipir's face brightened, though he sounded about as articulate as ever. "Two men, both Nords, right around Brynjolf's age, I'd wager. Thought I was seeing double for a minute there, when I first spotted the armor."

"That'll be the Wolf Twins." I couldn't help but smile. It had been a while since I'd taken down a dragon with those two. I turned to Mercer to ask to leave, but he was already waving me off.

"Go kill the dragon, then come find me and we'll head out," the Guildmaster said. "Should give me time to figure out some logistics, anyway."

I nodded, then turned to Vipir. "Where did you say they were?"

"Few miles north, up the main road," said the master pickpocket. "You'd best hurry; that dragon looked hungry."

"They always do," I said, clapping him on the shoulder and jogging out of the Cistern.

-)

True to Vipir's word, I found Farkas and Vilkas north of town. They were, however, much farther north than Vipir had led me to believe. I was nearly in the volcanic tundra of Eastmarch before I spotted the two familiar figures, one with his greatsword drawn and the other loosing arrows at an infuriated Frost Dragon. _That has to be Vilkas with the sword; he was always a terrible shot. _I briefly smiled at the memory of Aela's futile archery lessons with the big man, then got to business.

While still a few yards back from the Wolf wins, I called upon my magicka and sent a dualcasted firebolt spell up into the clouds and slamming into the dragon's side. It howled and cursed me in Draconic, seeming to realize its easy dinner just got exponentially more difficult. The Twins whirled to face me as one, and broke out into identical grins at the arrival of the Dragonborn. "You boys looked like you could use a hand!" I called as I closed the gap between us.

"We were fine!" Vilkas exclaimed as Farkas laughed, "The more the merrier!"

I rolled my eyes and drew my sword, at the ready for the dragon to swoop out of the clouds. "Good to see you, Shield-Sister," Farkas said to me without taking his eyes off the sky.

"Aye, that it is," Vilkas agreed, doing much the same.

I caught a glimmer of blue-white scales, and that was all I needed to shout the infamous Dragonrend—"_JOOR ZAH FRUL!"_

The dragon came crashing down to Nirn, thrashing about in the air as it tried to break the hold my Shout had over it. Vilkas wasted no time and got to hacking and slashing at its hide before it had even touched ground. Farkas was a bit more cautious, slinging his bow across his back and drawing his sword beforehand. And I began hacking away at its face. Most people avoid a dragon's mouth (for obvious reasons), but this way, I could hear it draw breath to Shout.

But this dragon, for whatever reason, didn't Shout. It snapped and clawed at us, but never drew on its Thu'um. I had no time to dwell on this oddity, because Dragonrend was wearing off and it was flapping its wings furiously, trying once more to take to the skies. I growled in frustration, knowing Dragonrend only worked so many times on one dragon. Vilkas seemed to read my mind, lowering his shoulder and locking his fingers together, offering me a leg up before the dragon flew away.

He sent me flying through the air, and my dagger found purchase in the dragon's scaly hide, but only just. It was rising higher now, trying desperately to shake off its deadweight. But I clung fast to its hide, climbing up its leg by systematically digging my dagger underneath its scales. I made my way to its back and finally got to my feet in an awkward crouch of sorts. I edged forward towards its head with a careful shuffling of my feet. And then, when I was close enough, I let loose a savage, Nord war cry and slammed my sword in one eye and out the other. The dragon plummeted almost immediately, and as a result, I was thrown from its back. Mercifully, it hadn't risen fully yet, but a fall from this height could still kill me. As I felt myself tumble through the air, I fumbled for a word of power that would soften my landing.

But I needn't have worried. Vilkas caught me just before I hit the ground, the momentum of my fall forcing the air from his lungs with a loud _whoosh _as we collided.The force brought him to his knees and stars to my vision. I viciously blinked to clear my sightline, then scrambled out of his grasp and over to the now-dead Frost Dragon. I jerked my sword out of its skull, which relinquished its hold with a nasty squelching noise that turned Farkas a rather distinctive shade of green.

Then, I felt it. The familiar rush of power, energy, and knowledge as my soul reached into the Void to claim this dragon's. _Kroagkest, _the soul informed me as it enveloped me with the smell of ashes and smoke, with the warmth of a beating heart, the power of a _dov_. _Sorcerer, burn, tempest. _His—Kroagkest's, that is—knowledge enveloped me, deepening my understanding of Draconic and the Thu'um. It boiled over in my blood, burned in my throat, begged for sweet release. I threw back my head and barked my favorite shout: _"YOL TOOR SHUL!"_

The fire dissipated into the sky and as I leveled my gaze again, the Twins came into view, both looking at me with confused expressions. Both had seen me absorb a dragon's soul before, that wasn't what puzzled them. "That's new," Vilkas commented dryly. "The shouting afterwards."

I shifted uneasily from foot to foot. "The older I get, the more often the Thu'um needs to be released."

"Hmm." was all Farkas said.

"Are the both of you alright?" I asked, skillfully diverting attention away from the Dovahkiin.

Farkas gave himself a quick once-over. "I'm fine. Brother?"

Vilkas quickly discovered the dragon had clawed his arm, and the wound appeared to be hurting him more than he let on. "I'm fine," he grunted.

"Vilkas, that'll get infected," I argued, getting a rather impressive sense of déjà vu. "Come on; let me heal it. You'll be good as new in moments."

"I'll be _fine, _Morwyn," he barked firmly. I'd forgotten his legendary distrust of magic.

But Farkas was more open to the arcane arts. He inspected his brother's wound a moment, then thrust the injured arm towards me, jerking Vilkas unceremoniously forward. "Heal him," said Farkas simply to me. Then to his brother, "Let her."

I called upon my magicka again, and, taking Vilkas' arm, wove the skin back together again. I focused solely on the open wound, imagining it closing of its own accord, as though an invisible hand were stitching it closed. By the time I finished, I was feeling rather exhausted at having so much of my magicka drained so quickly. I glanced up to tell Vilkas he was good as new, but the words stuck in my throat when I met that gaze of his head-on. Something was lurking just under the surface; something I had no desire to piece out right now.

I glanced to the sky instead, trying to get a feel for the time. It was late afternoon, encroaching on twilight. "I need to head back to Riften," I announced unnecessarily. "Are the two of you staying in town or in a camp?"

"We planned to head to Riften, but the dragon flew farther north than expected," Vilkas answered, then turned to his brother. "Farkas, what do you say we… Farkas?"

The larger of the Wolf Twins had his brow furrowed in concentration, and appeared to be listening hard. "Gods, I miss the wolf sometimes," he muttered, and his brow furrowed deeper. "Do you guys hear that?" he asked, louder this time.

"Hear what?" Vilkas and I asked in unwitting unison.

Farkas put a finger to his lips, and beckoned us to follow his (stealthy) lead. I immediately dropped into a crouch, lamenting the fact that although I was in my Guild armor, these two wouldn't be able to sneak very far in solid steel. Vilkas seemed to be of a mind with me, cocking an eyebrow in his brother's direction but dropping into a crouch anyway.

The three of us slowly made our way towards the direction Farkas was trying to listen in on. The closer we got to the volcanic tundra, though, the clearer the sounds became. The ring of a forge, the buzzing of conversation, the cries of injured men. All commonplace, but yet out of place here.

Dimly, I realized that Farkas must've retained some of his wolf hearing (much like I had, or how Vilkas retained some of the heighted sense of smell. The last claws of the wolves within us, if you like), but he hadn't explained what we were looking for. We reached the crest of a hill, and flattened ourselves out onto our bellies just below the top. And the sight that greeted us on the other side knocked the breath from my lungs.

A military camp, clearly Stormcloak, was stretched out across some of the only inhabitable land in this part of Eastmarch. But this wasn't a base camp to establish a chain of command and mount attacks. This wasn't even a medical camp, set up in the field to look after wounded soldiers. No, this was something far worse.

"That's a marching battalion," I hissed to the Twins. "But where on earth could they be marching to? There's nothing behind us except…" I cut myself off. Oh gods, it couldn't be true.

"Riften," we three said together.

"Why would he march on Riften?" Vilkas mused. "It's a Stormcloak town."

We got our answer when a pair of Shield-Brothers detached from the camp to do their business. The Twins and I slid back down the hill a tad to avoid detection, but we still heard their conversation. "Word on the street is, the Dragonborn's gone feral. Lost herself to the dragon in her," a man said, his voice thick with the accent of Northern Skyrim. "Absolutely lost it up on the Throat of the World. The Greybeards had to chase her away."

"What a load of rubbish," the other one scoffed, his accent more akin to central Skyrim and his voice a half-octave or so higher. "The Dragonborn doesn't lose control, _ever. _I've seen her in battle. More likely, the Greybeards told her something she didn't want to hear, and she ran. Women are like that."

My fists clenched involuntarily at my sides and my lips drew back in a snarl, and Farkas nudged me with his boot to remind me of what the price of capture would be.

"Well, whatever it was, Ulfric was furious," the first one, Northern Skyrim, said. "General Galmar seemed pleased, though. Can't imagine why."

"Probably won another wager," the second one, Central Skyrim replied.

They were quiet for so long I thought they'd left, but then Northern Skyrim spoke again. "I bet he won because he wagered the Dragonborn couldn't handle the mission."

"Well, clearly _something_ went wrong," Central Skyrim agreed, "because now we have to go liberate the woman. _Honestly, _you'd think if she meant so much, he'd have bedded her and been done with it by now! Women can hardly cause trouble with a babe to look after."

The mere mention of that made me simultaneously queasy and furious, but it also told me Ulfric and Galmar had kept Paarthurnax's revelation to themselves.

"I pity the fool who tries to bed the Dragonborn," came a third voice, one I recognized. _Ralof, what's he doing here? He's in charge at Haafingar! _

Vilkas shifted in discomfort beside me as Central Skyrim scoffed, "Oh, like you didn't try after you escaped Helgen."

"No, I didn't," Ralof spat back. "Because I, unlike you, have _honor. _And also I, unlike you, know the woman rather well. If she's still in Riften with the Thieves Guild, you'd damn well better believe it's because she wants to be. Whatever Ulfric says, this whole march is just his way of exerting his hold over her. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

"You're sounding like an Imperial, Ralof," Northern Skyrim spat.

"Use your _heads, _men," Ralof ordered. "Give me one good reason to march on Riften that _isn't _the Dragonborn." When neither of his subordinates could come up with anything, Ralof snorted. "Exactly. This is a vulgar display of power. Nothing more."

We waited for the three of them to meander back to the camp before we felt safe enough to move again. I cast the Muffle spell on both Twins and together we took off for Riften in a dead-on sprint. "We need to get this the Jarl!" Vilkas huffed once we'd covered enough distance to speak.

"Laila hasn't done her job in years!" I called back to him. They were lagging behind me, weighted down by their heavy steel armor. "We need to get this to _Mercer Frey!"_

Karliah would have to wait; the Guild needed to look after its living members, first.


	44. Dark Elven Warlord

**Hey all you wonderful readers, lurkers, and reviewers :) Honestly, writing this chapter made me physically anxious. Though that might have been the song I had on repeat (Glory, by Hollywood Undead, for those wondering) as I wrote it out.**

**And, the non-PM crew:**

**Kazu: Of course I'll be sticking to cannon :) life's just more fun with interludes in the Bethesda plotline**

**Serendipity: I love that movie, know exactly which scene you're talking about. And I'm flattered :D**

**Hey oh, let's go.**

**-)**

Arguing with Mercer Frey is like trying to storm Windhelm using your head as a battering ram. The harder you try, the more of a headache you end up giving yourself. He finds the cracks in your reasoning and suddenly your watertight argument is on the floor in fragments, right next to your dignity. At the moment, I felt a massive headache coming on and not for the first time, I wondered how such an insufferable man ever became Guildmaster in the first place.

"Mercer, why would she lie about something like this?" Brynjolf asked, his arms folded across his torso and his hip balanced against one of haphazardly-strewn-about tables in the Ragged Flagon.

Mercer's pose mirrored Brynjolf's, but was twice as tense and tight. "Brynjolf, your judgment involving the Elfling is _obviously _clouded…"

A vein pulsed in Brynjolf's temple. "Don't bring that into this, Mercer. This is a direct threat on my Guild family, and I intend to see it eliminated." His words rang ominously through the Flagon.

"You don't even know what she saw…" Mercer began.

"They did!" Brynjolf interrupted, jabbing both index fingers at the Wolf Twins, who stood on either side of me. "And I should think Companions know a fight when they see one!"

"Who are you two, anyway?" Mercer asked the Twins brusquely, turning his attention away from his Second a moment.

"This is Farkas…" I jabbed a thumb over my right shoulder. "…and that's Vilkas." I jabbed my other thumb over my left. "They're known collectively as the Wolf Twins. Esteemed members of the Companions' inner Circle and good friends of mine, I would trust these boys with my life. And more importantly, I would trust them with any of _yours." _I flicked my gaze pointedly about the Flagon.

That shut Mercer up, at least for the moment. He snapped his jaw shut as Delvin said, "Tiberia knows the price of lies, Mercer. She's not like to do it again."

"Wait, what?" Vilkas' concerned voice leapt at me from over my shoulder.

"We put her on trial, wolf boy," Vex interjected from her usual spot over by the crates stacked around the edges of Vekel's bar. "And Mercer, even _I _think she's telling the truth."

And _that_ drew a shocked silence out of the assembled Thieves. Vex didn't stick her neck out for anyone, _period._

"And why?" Mercer called over to her, sounding very much like the man who had lorded over my trial.

"Marching Battalions aren't like military camps, and Ty, didn't you used to be a Stormcloak General?" At my nod, Vex arched her back like a cat to reach her feet, sauntering over to where I stood toe-to-toe with Mercer. "Then she would _doubly _know the difference. And would recognize one on the move."

"What do _you_ know of the military?" Mercer scoffed.

Vex drew in a deep breath, and she seemed to struggle internally for a moment. I knew why, but Delvin, Brynjolf, and Mercer seemed confused. Vekel and Tonilia, too. Vex squared her shoulders a moment later, and said with her characteristic, haughty arrogance, "I was a soldier in the Imperial Legion for years, and I come from a long line of Legates and Legionnaires. And even more importantly, I know how to read people. If she's lying… then _Shor's bones,_ I'm a purple-spotted mammoth!" No one so much as smirked at the absurdity.

"Don't let your desire for revenge get in the way of your common sense, Mercer," Tonilia warned. "You have a duty to the dead, true, but a bigger one to the living."

"So say she _is_ telling the truth," Mercer began, his fingers already massaging his temples, trying to quell his raging headache, "we're a ragtag group of thieves. Not much to hold back an invading army."

"Not an army, just a unit," I told him.

"A ragtag group of thieves, and some assorted Companions," Vilkas interrupted, making half the place jump at the gravel in his voice.

"Why would you throw in your lot with a bunch of cursed thieves?" Delvin asked confusedly. "The Companions value honor above all else."

"There is honor among thieves," the Twins said together, with quiet force.

"Morwyn taught us that," Vilkas said, nudging me with an elbow.

"Besides, we always bet on the Harbinger," Farkas added, his unwavering faith in me making my resolve that much more rock-steady. "We'd be mad not to."

Vilkas affirmed this with a grunt. "Besides, you think we'd let Morwyn go into battle without a Shield-Brother? Not bloody likely."

"The Companions truly are a pack," Vekel mused from his vantage point behind the bar.

The Twins and I let out short, barking laughs. "Vekel, my friend," I called to him, "you don't even know the half of it."

"Mercer, every moment we spend arguing is another step closer to Riften Ulfric gets," Brynjolf reminded him, bringing us sharply back to the matter at hand. "We're wasting time we don't have. How long did you say we'd have, Tiberia?"

"Given the ground they'd have to cover, and the size of the retinue?" I paused to do the math. "They'll be here before the week is out. We've got five days—a full week if we're lucky, and we all know the Dark Lady's not favoring us at the moment.

Mercer shifted from foot to foot as Delvin added, "Besides, Mercer. I'd rather we overreact to a false alarm than under react to a real one."

Mercer was shaking his head. "The Thieves Guild, gearing for war…"

"I'll muster the rest of us," Brynjolf said, already up and moving towards the Cistern. "Tiberia can figure out orders from there."

"Last I checked, _I _was still in charge," Mercer growled after him.

"And if we're gearing for war, I'd prefer to fight under a General," Delvin snapped, and Vex's emphatic nod was what did Mercer in.

Mercer whirled on me, and I instinctively threw my hands up to protect my face. "Listen, Elfling," he rasped, "I'm making you, at this moment—with Delvin and Vex as my witnesses—my temporary partner. You have the power to give orders as I do, plan as I do, and the unquestioning loyalty of the Guild. But make no mistake, Tiberia Morwyn. The _instant _this threat is eliminated, you will be shot back to Junior status so fast it'll make your head spin. _Do I make myself clear?"_

"Crystal, Mercer Frey," I replied coolly. "I'm not one for power, anyway. Ask these two about how I've been trying to hand off the title of Harbinger since I got it."

"She made Vilkas Harbinger-Regent," Farkas affirmed. "Which is as close as she can come to passing it off without being dead."

By some miracle, the entirety of the Guild was in Riften. One-by-one, they dribbled in, some from the Cistern, some from the Ratway, and a few seemed to materialize out of seemingly _nowhere. _"Everyone here?" I asked Brynjolf as he reappeared in our midst.

"Aye," he hissed to me as Mercer gave the Guild the ten-second version of what was going on.

And then he dropped the big news. "…So until this threat is snuffed out, Tiberia is my partner. You have a question, comment, concern about the war, you go to her." The entire Guild (save Delvin and Vex) was shocked at this revelation; so naturally, Mercer then turned the floor over to me. "So what's the first order of business, General?" he asked me just shy of sarcastically, loud enough for the Guild to hear and snap to attention.

Several things sprang to mind, but I tackled them one at a time. "Farkas," I said, turning to the bigger of the twins. "Hire a courier, get a letter to Aela. Tell her to get her ass over here as fast as possible, bring my Wolf armor, and get as many of the Companions as she possibly can to get to Riften. We need to bolster our numbers if we're going to take a battalion head-on."

The Twin with the Strength of Ysgramor nodded, doing some quick math in his head. "If a suicidal courier can get to Whiterun in two days, Aela can get over here in another one, and the rest of our Shield-Siblings can get here in that day, plus another one…"

"You may just make it," Brynjolf finished for him.

"Aye, now _get topside! …_No, not the Ratway! Vipir, show him the secret exit." The thief in question jumped to his feet and led Farkas out of the room.

"If it's number bolstering we need, someone should tell the Jarl," Thrynn called from one of the tables.

"We're better off asking Maven Black-Briar," Mercer muttered.

"Vilkas," I said, turning to the remaining Twin, "you know what to do."

"As always, Shield-Sister." He saluted me Stormcloak-style (a closed fist thumped against one's chest), and then took off into the Cistern after his brother.

"Next order of business?" Brynjolf prompted me.

I twisted to ask Vekel, "You got a quill and paper?"

He handed me the articles a moment later, and I handed them off to Brynjolf, ordering him to take notes. I turned to face my Guild again: "Roll call, boys! I call your name, you tell me how you fight in open combat and what armor I need to forge you." I winced, realizing I'd been spending most of the coming week at the forge. "Am I clear?"

"Crystal, sir!" Vex called, sounding for all the world like a legionnaire.

Brynjolf, now seated at a table with the quill poised over several sheets of paper, nodded to me, and I began. "Mercer Frey!"

"Sword and dagger, usually!" the Guildmaster called. "Bow and arrow in a pinch. And I've got my own armor I use for open combat."

In my mind, it made the most sense to work my way down the ranks. "Brynjolf!"

"Twin axes!" called my impromptu scribe. "I've got my own armor, as well. But I'll probably need new mail."

"Write it down," I ordered. "Delvin Mallory!"

"Battlemage!" called the old Breton. "Schools of Destruction and Conjuration, mainly. I have some old robes, but if I got a set of new ones, could you enchant them?"

"Done," I said, and the scratch of the quill affirmed that Brynjolf had it jotted down. "Vex!"

"Sword and shield, dagger in my belt!" the cold woman called. "Forge me the armor of the Legate, if you can. Heavy Imperial Armor. If not, steel will be fine."

"Of course I can," I scoffed. "Cynric Endell!"

"Bow and arrow, destruction magic in a pinch!" The bowman called. "I've got my own armor, but Divines know last time I wore it. Might need some patching up."

"I'll see to it." Still more to go. "Niruin!"

"Bow and arrow as well, conjuration when all else fails," my Brother Elf called. "I'll be needing Glass or Elven armor!"

"Done." Scribble scribble went my scribe. "Thrynn!"

"I've got a sword, need a shield!" The ex-bandit called. "Can you forge scaled armor?"

"In my sleep. Rune!"

"Two-handed, battleaxe or greatsword, no difference to me!" the Imperial called. "And can you forge Dwarven?

"People, stop insulting my smithing skills. Sapphire!"

"Dual-wielding, short sword and war axe!" the sharp-tongued woman called. "I'll be keeping my Guild armor."

"Suit yourself. Is Vipir back…?"

"Aye, and I've got a sword!" the pickpocket called. "Forge steel plate for me, would you kindly?"

"Done and done. Etienne Rarnis!"

"Mage!" shouted the New Blood. "I've got Alteration and Destruction battle robes!"

"Good, another mage. Tonilia!"

"Bow and arrow, dagger in my belt!" the resident fence shouted. ""I'll be keeping my Guild armor as well."

"Whatever works. Vekel!"

The barkeep was visibly surprised that I called on him. "I've got a warhammer," he said. "I'll be needing any sort of armor."

"Vekel, I need a type of armor. Heavy or light, how dense?"

"Some sort of heavy, it doesn't matter which," the barkeep replied.

"Put down steel," I told Brynjolf. "Dirge!"

If Vekel was surprised, the lookout was downright shocked. "I've got a war axe and leather armor, so I'm all set!"

"Wonderful, I do believe that's everyone," I said, glancing about the Flagon to make sure I wasn't forgetting anyone.

"Next order of business?" someone prompted. Rune, I think.

"Vex, Vipir, and Cynric!" I pointed each out in turn. "I need the three of you to procure as much iron, steel, corundum, dwarven, and leather as you possibly can. I'll be needing a lot to forge all this. Not to mention Moonstone and Malachite. Get to it!"

The three infiltrators hopped out of their seats and dissipated out into the world. "Niruin, I need you to get the rumor mill going in the Bee and Barb. If I know Laila Law-Giver half as well as I should, she won't want to lift a finger to defend her city until the good, honest citizens of Riften are nice and frenzied." He too jumped to his feet and disappeared.

"Thrynn and Rune, I'm sending the two of you on reconnaissance," I ordered. "I need information about the enemy—location, numbers, kinds of soldier. They're due north of the city, near the volcanic tundra of Eastmarch. Go!" They sprang to action without another word.

"Sapphire, I need you to start brewing as many health, magicka, and stamina potions as you possibly can," I called to the only decent alchemist in the group. "Start divvying them up into knapsacks. We'll get you a stack of them." She too jumped up to follow orders.

"Mercer!" I barked, feeling oddly like the man himself. "Get a map of Skyrim, I need you to draw up battle plans with me!" He jumped up like a singed cat and disappeared into the Cistern.

"Everyone else!" I called, and the rest of the Guild snapped to action. "Watch the Flagon and the Cistern, sharpen your weapons and your wits, and prepare to go to war at a moment's notice! Let's _move_, people!"


	45. Sisters in Crime

**I realize this chapter is rather lengthy. I also realize I haven't posted in a while. I apologize for the latter, but the former is just kind of a fact of life.**

**As always, thank you so much to all you readers, reviewers, and lurkers :) I'm keeping at this, I swear. I just can't write until the wee hours anymore, so less gets done in a night.**

**And the non-PM crowd:**

**Aledis: Sadly, no violence yet, but it's coming. Also, I'm interested to see how your picture turns out :) I'm sure it's better than you think it is :)**

**Onwards.**

**-)**

"Elfling… _Elfling_… wake up! Come on, Tiberia."

A familiar, rasping voice invaded my mind, even as the accompanying hand roughly shook my by the shoulders. I slowly became aware of my surroundings—dimly lit, damp, dank, musty-smelling, and my head resting in my folded arms—and realized, I must have fallen asleep at one of the tables in the Ragged Flagon. There was a map of Skyrim under my cheek, sticking to my sweaty skin, and my neck was beginning to ache from holding my head at an awkward angle for so long.

After the meeting in the Flagon yesterday, the Guild had split to the Four Winds, preparing for war was quickly and efficiently as thieves possibly could. Everyone attacked their assigned jobs with ferocity and ingenuity, and more importantly, no one questioned orders. I had spent the previous afternoon at the forge topside. Balimund, the outstanding man that his is, had told me that his forge was mine until the invasion. If he were ten—even _five—_years younger, he assured me, he'd be suiting up and heading into battle himself. But he was getting on in years, so he'd settle for double-checking my work and supplying me with any and all materials I needed. So moved was I that I swallowed my pride, and asked the Divines to bless him in the Temple of Mara before I delved back into the Cistern.

From there, Mercer and I had spent the better part of last night pouring over a map of the Rift/Eastmarch area. We plotted possible battles, with and without the rest of the Companions, with and without the city guard, came up with different strategies, even toyed with the idea of cobbling together a few war machines. But the result of every possible battle was always certain doom for a certain group of thieves he and I had both pledged our lives to. There was just no way ten-odd thieves and two Companions could hold back a Battalion in open combat.

Vilkas had brought us both dinner sometime just before midnight, ordering us to eat (mostly me, because he knows how I tend to forget in times of stress), and, being the military mind of the Companions, had pulled a chair around to plot with us. But even between Vilkas, Mercer, and I, no non-suicidal plan was forthcoming. Not for the first time since giving it up, I mourned the Beast Blood. And even Vilkas, the staunchest supporter of Kodlak's decision to cure the Circle, had to admit, having four werewolves would even out the odds considerably. Just having Aela the Huntress was like having ten Orcish berserkers when she took to the Blood. Vilkas had been at least twice as vicious, way back when, and Farkas had been able to keep control over his wolf form for hours. But by far, I had been the most savage of them all. Not sure how much of that had to do with learning to deal with my Dragon Blood, how much was the Beast, and how much was the woman herself.

Not that we mentioned it all that explicitly around Mercer. He understood, the Companions had their secrets, and if the time came, he'd know about them. And not a moment before. That didn't mean he liked it, though. Eventually Vilkas had gone to bed (he and Farkas were camping out in the training room), leaving just the Guildmaster and me. We argued and discussed a little while longer, then Mercer retired, with a stern order to follow suit soon, before I simply passed out from exhaustion.

_Looks like I botched that one, Mercer._

I picked up my head a fraction of an inch, one red eye sliding open to survey the scene, and found myself snared in the cantankerous man's glare. "I _told _you to get some sleep, girl," he barked.

"I did," I muttered to the table as I tried to think of a decent reason to get up. My body was screaming for sleep, pleading exhaustion, pleading fatigue, pleading that it had too much to do, and not enough time to do it. _Well, you wanted a reason... _Fully picking my head up, I sat up now, unsticking the map from my face. "I'll just get Sapphire to brew an extra pot of her outrageously strong coffee this morning…" I grimaced at the dim light of the Cistern. "…or twelve."

"No," Mercer said, more so than barked, this time. "Tiberia, you need actual _sleep. _You're of no use to anyone if you're so tired you're making simple mistakes."

I rubbed at my eyes, but I was so tired, it did nothing to clear my vision or remove the gunk from the corners of my eyes. "Mercer, there is _so much _I need to get done in the next three days, it isn't even…" I rose unsteadily to my feet, instinctively grabbing for the edge of the table as the ground seemed to lurch beneath me. I wasn't drunk; I really was _that _tired.

I missed the table, but Mercer caught me before I fell too far. "I'd say get into the Cistern—and that's an _order, _Indigo—but it's just past dawn. The rest of the Guild will be rousing themselves soon enough…" His brow furrowed as he tried to come up with a solution. And then, it hit him. "Come on, elfling. You can crash in Riftweald for a while."

"Mercer, I can't…" I began again, my mind already going over the things I needed to get done that day.

His grip on my arm tightened, and the pain shut me up. "You can, and _will. _Don't make me get the Companions on the case."

I grimaced at the thought of what Farkas or Vilkas would say—or do—if they learned I wasn't taking care of myself because of the impending war. "Fine. But let go of me, would you?"

Mercer withdrew his vice grip and began to make his way over to the Ratway entrance. But when I attempted to follow suit, I stumbled again, jamming the corner of the table into my hip. I hissed in pain, alerting the Guildmaster that I was in no condition to get out of here myself. "The things I do for my Guild," he groused as he slid my arm over his shoulders, using his modest frame to hold me up, and began the trek out into the city proper with me on his shoulders.

Delvin was coming back down from topside, and he stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of us. He looked as though he'd seen a ghost. "Good gods, Mercer! For a moment there, I thought I'd gone back twenty-five years…"

"Indigo's been gone a long time now, Del," Mercer replied, and I could have sworn he sounded almost… sad? Wistful? Heartsick? I couldn't tell, but it was distinctly _un-_Mercer.

In the early morning light, Riften seemed uncharacteristically peaceful as we made our way through the streets. Mercer unlocked the door to Riftweald Manor with a key produced from somewhere on his person, and after a short, terse conversation with Vald, his human watchdog, ushered me inside. Stairs were giving me particular trouble, but Mercer managed to get me up the stairs in my delirious, half-awake state with considerable aplomb. He carefully slid me out of his grasp, more gently that I would have expected from the calloused, aging Breton, and onto the bed in the guest room.

"Best get out of your boots," he muttered, not quite gently but certainly with less of an edge than his usual orders. "…And your bracers, aye. That's a good lass." Once the offending pieces of my armor posed no threat to my extremities, I couldn't help but fall back, and curl into a ball, sleeping like I had as a child.

"Get some sleep, elfling." Mercer's voice floated down to my consciousness from somewhere far away, both physically and mentally. "I'll send someone to get you in a few hours." And the door shut.

In the moments before I fell completely asleep, I realized Indigo must have been Mercer's nickname for Karliah.

-)

When I came to once more, the world was quiet. That was the weirdest thing, the silence. The Cistern was never quiet. There was always _something _going on in the Guild—people coming and going; training or cooking; the whetstone grinding and the secret entrance grating; the steady thumping of arrows in cloth targets; laughter from the Flagon; hushed voices from over by Mercer's desk. To wake up to total silence was abnormal. Put me on edge.

I sat up suddenly, felt the blanket come away from me. It was baby soft, dyed a cheery forest green, and smelled clean. _The hell…? _I thought. Then last night (this morning?) came flooding back to me. _Mercer… _I was in Mercer's house. …_Indigo… _He'd been looking out for me. …_Vilkas… _The Wolf had been trying to forge a battle-plan with us. _…War…_

Ulfric was on his way.

I was instantly on my feet, looking for my weapons and my armor. My boots and bracers were lined up on the desk in the corner, alongside the dagger I kept in my boot and my swordbelt (which, I realized, I hadn't been wearing when Mercer had dragged me in here). As I cautiously padded over to where my things lay, I heard voices from outside my door. I paused just behind it, and pressed one pointed ear against the door to listen in.

"…Mercer sent me, Vald. It's all right. Look, I even had the key! Didn't pick the lock or anything…"

I heard footsteps then, and jumped back just in time to avoid having the large wooden projectile slammed into my front. A baffled Delvin Mallory stood in the doorway then, but he quickly recovered, saying, "Good, you're awake."

"Barely," I replied with an exaggerated yawn as I plopped down on the side of the bed to buckle my boots.

Delvin snorted and leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms in the process. "You know, I was in the Flagon when Mercer dragged you out of there. You were dead tired, girl. You need to take better care of yourself. Just because we're in a war doesn't mean you suddenly don't need to sleep or eat."

I bowed my head sheepishly. "I know, I know. That's just how I get when under extreme stress. Vilkas and Farkas know how I get…"

Delvin stroked his wispy goatee in thought. "That explains why the one stormed into the Flagon last night and made you eat something…" At my pointed look, Delvin shrugged and held up both hands, palms out. "I can't tell the bloody things apart…!"

I couldn't help it; I laughed. It had been a long time since I'd had trouble separating the twins. "Vilkas is shorter, and Farkas doesn't have a full beard."

"Good to know," Delvin said, nodding to me and not offended in the slightest. "By the way, there're two rather shady types looking for you down in the Flagon. I suggest meeting them with one hand firmly around the hilt of your sword."

I rose uneasily to my feet, now fully armored. "Shady, _how, _Delvin?"

"As in, they both wear full-length cloaks and won't give their names, but asked for you specifically by both of yours."

_Could be a Psijic... or a Greybeard? _I was baffled. "Hmm, best with the swords, then. Though… how'd these get here, anyway? I wasn't wearing them last night."

"Mercer," Delvin grunted in reply. "He must think highly of you if he's letting you sleep here, you know." He gestured widely to the wood encompassing us. "He doesn't let just anyone into Riftweald."

I was actually shocked at that. "I was under the impression Mercer genuinely hated me."

"What? No." Delvin's turn to look shocked. "True, Mercer doesn't really _like_ anyone, but he respects your skills, and that hardheaded determination of yours. Reminds him of himself, he said."

My brow furrowed. "When did he say that?"

Delvin shrugged. "'E was talking to Bryn and I once about it, probably drunker than 'e should have been." And then, another tangent. "By the way, Tiberia…" He paused, trying to come up with the right words. "…it isn't really my business, but I worry about the lad. Brynjolf's treating you right, yeah?"

"Of course," I said at once. "I'm surprised you're worried about _my _end, though."

"I knew his father, and I knew Raynor," Delvin said gently, though choosing his words with extreme care. "They were good men, but… I mean, Juri straightened out Ceylon quick enough, but…"

"'Women come and go, but battle-blood is forever'?" I quoted the old Companion adage.

Delvin nodded. "Aye, exactly. Brynjolf's never really had that style, just by nature. But… well, like I said, I worry about the lad."

"I think he does better for himself than you give him credit for," I said as we began the trek out into the city proper. As we descended the stairs, I realized Mercer's home had no guest bedroom—he would have had to give up his own bed so I could get some sleep. The realization made me profoundly (dis)comforted.

"I know 'e does," Delvin scoffed. "In my mind, though, he's permanently about twelve or thirteen years old."

We paused just inside the Guild mausoleum. "Hey, Delvin," I began carefully, "can I ask you something?"

"'Course," he said, waving me ahead.

"Indigo… was that Karliah?"

His eyes widened, but quickly snapped back to their original positions. "…Aye, Mercer called her Indigo on account of her skin. She called him the Old Man on account of his rather crotchety disposition. Those two were the best of friends, all those years ago… You and Brynjolf remind me of them, honestly."

We descended into the earth as I said, "Not sure I like the sound of that."

"The rapport," he said as we touched down in the Cistern, "not the ending."

We strode across the bridges, the Dunmer and the Breton. Only in the criminal underbelly of Riften could two such dissimilar races treat each other as true equals. Sure, Delvin was _ranked _higher than I was, but that wasn't because he was Breton. It was because he was simply a better thief, plain and simple. We stopped just before the door to the Flagon. "Watch yourself, elfling," he said with a combination older brother/cantankerous uncle inflection. He clapped me on the back and shoved me not-so-gently towards the door.

"I finally drop one racial nickname," I groused, "only to be stuck with another."

Delvin shrugged. "The Guild more or less works as a dysfunctional family. You have Mercer, the cantankerous father; Big Brother Brynjolf, who is _fiercely _protective of his Guild siblings; Big Sister Vex, who doesn't give a _damn _what you think of her; and deranged Uncle Delvin, who's been at this so long he could go about it with his eyes closed. And any and all manner of cousins, younger siblings, and friends that may as well be family."

I paused just before the door. "You're the reason Brynjolf calls the Guild a family."

Delvin just grinned. "Good to know he's passing the knowledge along the ranks." And with that, he took his leave.

Laying one hand seemingly casually on the hit of Dawnbreaker, I pushed open the door to the Flagon. Immediately, an anxious-looking Tonilia intercepted me. "Tiberia!" Worry lines sat deeply etched in her pretty face, and her wedding band glinted dangerously in the half-light of the Flagon. She looked harrowed, haunted. "Did Delvin warn you…?"

"I nodded quickly. "Aye, for once he did his job. But never mind that. Time to face whatever's waiting."

She nodded, jaw set firm. "Brynjolf and Mercer are already out there. They've got your back. Best put on the face of the Dovahkiin, Guildsister. Much more terrifying than the thief."

With a rasp of metal on leather, I drew my sword from its place at my side. With the characteristic sidehsuffle of a swordswoman, I sauntered into the Ragged Flagon like I owned the world. The sight of Mercer—sword and dagger drawn and leveled—and Brynjolf—twin axes poised to strike—standing over two seated, cloaked figures greeted me. Mercer heard my entrance; his head snapped up in the direction of my near-silent footfalls. "There she is now," he rasped. "Try _anything, _assassin, and we'll cut you down."

"I wouldn't dare," murmured one of the seated figures. The voice sounded vaguely feminine.

"Assassins, eh?" I clarified shortly. "What faction?"

"She says Morag Tong," Brynjolf answered me readily enough. "But they've been disbanded for the last fifteen or so years."

The figure that had spoken suddenly threw back its hood. "One does not turn tail on one's own."

My face broke out into a relaxed smile, and I sheathed my sword. "Avalon," I said mock-reproachfully, "what's with all the cloak and dagger? Do you not trust your little sister?"

She laughed, a sound like sunlight through shattered glass. "Of course I trust _you, _Tiberia. It's your friends here that I don't."

"Smart woman," Mercer commented.

"Ty's the clever one," Brynjolf quipped automatically, almost absentmindedly.

Avalon laughed again. "Well sister, you've managed to find a clever one. I must say, I'm rather impressed."

Mercer looked from Avalon, to me, to Brynjolf, and back again. "You've met before?" he asked, his voice deadly quiet.

"Aye, in Solitude," Brynjolf said, ignoring Mercer's deadly tone (or perhaps so used to it, it didn't worry him). "She's the lass who killed Vici. Blimey, Mercer, we told you that."

Mercer leveled an impressive glare at his Second-in-Command. "And you failed to mention you knew her _because…?"_

"One," Brynjolf snapped, "I didn't get a good look at her face until, oh, _now. _Two, you do all the talking…"

Avalon and I both watched the unfolded argument with furrowed brows. "How in Oblivion did you to be _his_ Second?" I asked Brynjolf confusedly.

"Long story," Mercer barked, sharply turning his attention back to myself, Avalon, and the still-cloaked hooded figure.

"One we're not drunk enough to tell," Mercer added.

"Such things can be fixed!" Farkas called from his spot by the bar.

I gave a startled little jump when I heard his voice. I hadn't even realized he and Vilkas were _in _here, much less witnessing this conversation. But there they were, sitting at the bar and surveying the scene alongside a tense Vekel the Man. I should have known my guardian wolves would be watching my back, too.

So I turned back to face my sister. "Avalon, why are you here?"

Her expression turned gloomy, and I knew then this was serious. Avalon was bubbly and happy almost to a fault. Seeing her more like the average Dark Elf was… abnormal. "I was pulling a job in Windhelm with my friend here," she clapped the other hooded figure on the back, and it gave a startled yelp at her touch. "And heard these rumors—Ulfric Stormcloak, they said, marching on Riften, they said. He'll be there in a week's time. He's after the Dragonborn; she's been on her secret mission too long. Something must've happened to her…"

Silence in the Flagon.

"Believe her _now, _Mercer?" Brynjolf growled.

"_Hush, _boy!" The Guildmaster snapped, and Brynjolf's hackles lowered, just a tad. Mercer cautiously padded over to Avalon. "What you say is true then, assassin?"

"Mercer, she has a _name," _I said irritably.

"…And I knew," Avalon continued her story, igorning all her interruptions, "that if there was anywhere in Tamriel I needed to be, it was at your back, little sister. Blood is stronger than steel."

"The motto of House Morwyn," I heard Vilkas mutter from his spot over by the bar.

"Definitely Avalon," Brynjolf confirmed at that. "But why now, lass?"

Avalon sized him up, carefully weighing her next words. "I was born under the Shadow, into House Redoran, into House _Morwyn_. Killing is what I _do. _It's in my blood. But stronger than that is the Blood Bond between Tiberia and me." Avalon threw off her cloak now, exposing her Dark Brotherhood armor. She yanked off one of her bracers and rolled up her sleeve to the crook of her elbow, exposing the Daedric letter T—the sign of her Blood Bond with me. "Her fights are mine. Her enemies, mine. Her tragedies, _mine_. Her glories, mine. And vice versa. Until one of us perishes."

"A Blood Bond is not something taken lightly," Vex murmured. I wasn't sure how she knew this elven tradition, and I also wasn't sure I wanted to know. "Tiberia, you must have a Daedric A somewhere then...?"

The whole room looked to Brynjolf, whose steely expression didn't change. "I've never seen it," he said firmly.

"It's here," I said, tapping my hip, just above where my sword buckled, and below the top of my leggings. "Had to be able to hide it after I got shipped off to Summerset."

"After Neva found out," Avalon began, making no move to cover her tattoo, "I took no chances in guarding Tiberia's life."

That hit me like a warhammer to the gut. "Neva knew…?" I began. "_You _knew…?

Avalon nodded. "Mother told me before she died, and Neva figured it out shortly after that. She wanted to _kill _you, Tiberia!" The fire was in her eyes, similar to my own. "But I don't care _who _your father is. You've got my blood in your veins, and that's all that matters. You're full Morwyn to me, little sister. So you're raising an army to fight off Stormcloak? About damn time someone worth their salt did. You can count my blade among them. His too." She jerked her chin towards her travelling companion.

The second hooded figure now stood, throwing back its hood as well. A thick-jawed, reddish-brown-haired Imperial of middling height lay under the black cloak. He wore the characteristic red-and-black of the Dark Brotherhood, but his armor looked to have been modeled after the average Court Jester, complete with the cap. An ebony dagger hung at his belt, and his dark eyes betrayed him as one of Sheogorath's own.

"This is Cicero," Avalon introduced with a flourish, "the Fool of Hearts, and the Keeper of the Night Mother."

"Cicero protects the Listener, Listener protects sister," the jester said in an oddly high-pitched voice, and as though speaking about oneself in the third person was normal. "But the Brotherhood is for killing, not for protecting…"

As one, Mercer, Brynjolf, and I gave Avalon the same look. "He's a bit mad," she admitted readily. "Not like Tiberia, but _truly_ mad."

"Cicero isn't mad!" the man squealed indignantly. "Cicero is happy! So happy he could stab you. Stab, stab, stabbity stab! Oh, so soon!"

Avalon's face was pinched. "Just ignore him; it's what the Brotherhood does. But in any event Tiberia, I'm yours to command, as is Cicero, and two more of our number should be here within the next few days. The ones on this half of Skyrim, really. The rest apologize that they can't get here in time. It'll be one hell of a fight."

My brow furrowed. "The Brotherhood is under _your _command?"

"By Azura, no!" Avalon laughed. "This is just a friendly favor to their Listener, their little sister."

I had so many questions for her, so very much to do, it was beginning to boggle my mind. "Come, Avalon, talk to me while I get to work. I have so much armor to forge…"

Her face split into a grin. "Just like old times, 'ey sister?"

"I didn't agree to this…!" Mercer began.

I shot him a look that, miraculously, silenced him. "Mercer Frey, we don't have a choice."


	46. Rising Fire, Phoenix Ashes

**Hello, all! :) A big thank you to all of you, and hopefully this should answer most of your questions.**

**And, the non-PM crowd:**

**Anon: Thank you :) I'm glad you enjoy my writing :) As for Avalon, I hope this chapter clears up most of your questions. And yes. You can haz :)**

**Pandababii: Thank you :) I rather liked the ending too :)**

**-)**

"Avalon," I said, "I have so many questions for you, I don't even know where to begin…"

I was at Balimund's forge, working on a set of Imperial Legate Amor for Vex. It had been a while since I'd been at a forge like this for so long, and my arms and back ached. But it was a good ache, it told me I was alive, told me I was doing something vaguely productive. Avalon was perched on the short wall surrounding the marketplace, watching me work with a practiced eye. She had no talent for smithing herself, but had watched me so many countless times, she'd learned to pick out things my frenzied self would glance over (warped metal, strange folds, etc). It was almost comical to see her sitting in broad daylight in her Dark Brotherhood armor, but the city of Riften was in such a state of panic and disarray she was hardly given a passing glance.

"The start tends to be a good place," she quipped.

I looked up from the smoldering metal to shoot dirty daggers her way. "Okay sister, I knowyou're not very good at poker, but did you _have _to play our Ace in the Hole as soon as you sat down?"

Avalon snorted, but didn't deny it. "Tiberia, you're in with the Riften Thieves Guild. They're bloody paranoid, and infamous for it! And they aren't exactly on the greatest of terms with myself or Neva, all things considered. I had to make them trust me, even if it meant giving away our biggest secret."

Absentmindedly, I laid a hand on my hip, right over my tattoo of the Daedric letter A done in Avalon's blood. "So that was your master plan? Reveal we're Blood Bonded? You do realize Nords don't know what that means, right?"

She shrugged. "What's done is done, sister, stop fretting. You'll only make your head hurt. What else is in that thick skull of yours?"

I snorted, and the ring of a hammer on metal accompanied my next words. "Why did you break Neva out?"

She let out a sigh, and her raven bangs flew away from her face like their colorsake. "First of all, I didn't know who we were breaking out, or who was doing the incarcerating. Second of all, _had I known, _I would have refused. Astrid came to me one day, said an old friend of her husband's was calling in a favor. Off the books, she said."

"Rescue missions are for Companions," I reminded her, semi-sternly.

She shrugged. "Astrid went to the Companions first. Spoke with their Harbinger-Regent, great bear of a man. But he refused the job, saying they couldn't spare the men at the moment."

_Good ol' Vilkas.I knew I could count on him. _It was the classic 'we really don't want to do this job, something's fishy' lie. Too few men, we always said. As if Companions would ever turn down a chance for glory. Something about this Astrid must have set off alarm bells. "So she called on her own Guild?"

"Aye." Avalon nodded. "So a few of us break into the house, get Neva, and Astrid's husband—that was the werewolf, by the way—takes off with our sister. And then, imagine my surprise when I get shot with and arrow, and discover my _other _sister standing in the plaza!" She chuckled at some private joke. "Not the way I wanted to re-introduce myself, I can assure you."

"Hey now," I said, dropping a sizzling sheet of hammered metal into the trough of water. "You're the one who crossed blades with _me."_

Avalon shot me an oh-come-now look. "And when have I ever, in living memory, been able to best you? No, I was trying to keep you occupied so someone else didn't killyou!"

That reminded me. "There was a Brotherhood contract out on my head a few months ago. A Redguard named Nazir was sent to kill me. He lost. But why hasn't anyone else come after me?"

Avalon threw back her head and laughed. "Tiberia, there was never a contract on your head! Astrid was trying to get ridof _Nazir!_ She made up a contract out against some Dragonborn—someone she absolutely knew would kill him."

My brow furrowed at the news. "Why would she try to kill her own?"

Avalon's mirth evaporated. "I don't know," she said seriously. "I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary around the sanctuary beforehand… then she comes to us and says Nazir was betraying the Family?" She shook her head. "Personally, I think she's been more than a little on-edge ever since Cicero came to the Sanctuary. But he's the Keeper of the Night Mother; she could hardly turn him away."

"That was another thing," I remembered. "What's this whole Keeper, Listener, Night Mother business?"

"The short of it is simple," Avalon said, gods be praised that she was the sister that cut to the quick. "Legend has it that a Dunmeri woman bore five children, then sacrificed each of them to the Dread Lord Sithis, thus becoming the Night Mother. Her body was preserved and entrusted to the Dark Brotherhood upom her death, and a Keeper would look after it."

I snorted. "No wonder Cicero is mad. I would be too, if I looked after a corpse all day."

She laughed, and then grew somber. "His story's a sad one, in actuality. But it is one for another time." Her face brightened as she continued. "Tell me Tiberia, what must one do to contact the Dark Brotherhood?"

"The Black Sacrament," I murmured over the bellows.

"Precisely." Avalon nodded. "One must pray to the Night Mother. The Night Mother, in turn, tells her Listener of the prayers, and that becomes a Contract."

My brow furrowed. "A talking corpse is the head of the Dark Brotherhood…?"

"She doesn't speak as we do, Ty," Avalon corrected gently. "The Unholy Matron speaks to a Listener through her _mind. _That's what drove Cicero mad. There was no Listener for years, and he thought he'd either angered her, or was moments away from hearing her voice."

I spared a shred of pity for the mad jester currently inflicting himself on my Guildsiblings. If anyone had a reason to worship Sheogorath, it was that one. "So you're the mouthpiece for a corpse?" I clarified.

Avalon's laughed bubbled up and escaped like fizz from a bottle. "When you put it like that, I sound mad, don't I? But yes, that's the general gist."

I had to laugh at that. She'd clearly come to terms with the absurdity of her new position. Which reminded me… "How did you get to be Brotherhood, Avalon? You're Morag Tong, and damn proud of it. Why side with your most bitter rival?"

"Something needs to be a contender to have a rival, Tiberia." She let out a monstrous sigh. "The Tong has disbanded. Your… ah… _friend—_you know, the redhead—wasn't lying. Everyone worth killing in Morrowind is either already dead, or fled the country. We dissolved the Tong to go ply our trades elsewhere, but with the promise we would reform and return to Morrowind one day." Her sadness was almost tangible. "But I fear that day is long in coming. And I am an assassin, sister. I know nothing else."

The Tong, disbanded? I couldn't fathom it. Avalon's Guild had been a constant when I was growing up, much like Neva's Guild. Only difference was, I liked the Tong members Avalon was friends with. They were kind to the little elfling, telling her jokes and funny stories and sometimes bringing back some odd trinket for her from their travels. The Thalmor were always harsh and domineering—but perfectly polite to my mother. They did not treat children—especially Elven children—with the joy and almost reverence that one should always. "I am so sorry…"

"We _will _be reunited again," Avalon vowed. "But until then, I can't allow myself to get rusty, now can I?" She smirked. "No, the Guild Master wouldn't appreciate that too much…"

I laughed again, and couldn't help but think of my own Guildmaster, and his rather out-of-character random acts of kindness yesterday. I couldn't figure any reason for it. _Unless he was thinking of Indigo instead… _Argh, too many unanswered questions! I hated not having answers. Made my teeth itch.

Another one. "So where is Neva now, eh?"

Avalon shifted uncomfortably on her perch. "Back with the Thalmor. Apparently, Elenwen is a close personal friend of _Astrid_, not Arnbjorn. So she not only lied to send us out on the mission, but also on the outcome."

"Wonderful!" I exclaimed, dripping sarcasm. "Let's put her _back _into a position of power! Nothing bad could _possibly _come out of that."

"I had no choice!" Avalon huffed. "You think I wanted to aid that would-be murderess?!"

"_Would-be?!" _I exclaimed. "Sweet Azura, sister! She's murdered hundreds of Talos worshippers in their beds!"

"I was referring to_ you, _Sister, but yes, I suppose you're right…" Then her face darkened. "Sister, do you keep the _gods?"_

"No, the Daedra," I said instantly, and her expression relaxed. "The problem is, the Dragonborn is one favored by Akatosh, and Talos was a Dovahkiin, and the Greybeards had me study him…"

"What is a Dragonborn?" My sister asked, and I realized she honestly had no idea. And she'd been in Skyrim _how _long?

I drew in a tired breath. "A Dragonborn is someone born with the body of a mortal—_joor—_and the soul of a dragon—_dovah. _Said person can intrinsically learn and use the dragon language—Draconic—as _Thu'umme_—shouts. They're rare, though. Last one was Tiber Septim—Talos—himself."

Avalon was quiet a moment, digesting this new information. "So you're part dragon, then?"

"Not in the way you're thinking," I said, trying to remember how the Greybeards had explained it to me. "I have my own soul, a black one the same way you do. But Akatosh chose me, favored me with Dragon Blood—_Dovahsos. _And that Dragon Blood is what makes me part dragon. It isn't like one of my parents slept with a dragon…" At her confusion, I elaborated. "Think of my soul as a braid. You have the strand that is Dunmer, mortal, woman, and the strand that is alien, immortal, _Dovah. _The common thread between them is that both are creatures of fire and ash, of magic and violence."

"That… makes sense, I suppose."

I nodded, relieved she understood. "Also because it is a braid, of sorts, my soul is stronger than that of the average mortal. It can withstand more, as can my body. There have been several occasions where I should have died… and yet I haven't."

Avalon smirked. "You're just too stubborn, is all. So, what is this Shouting?"

"They're known colloquially as Words of Power…? No? Still never heard of them?" I sighed, and threw back my head. _"YOL!" _

Fire leapt from my mouth, and Avalon recoiled in shock. "Sweet Sithis!" she exclaimed. "You breathe _fire!?"_

"And frost, and command animals, and disarm people…" I made a circular, fluttering motion with my hand. "There are endless shouts. They come from what I call Word Walls, ancient inscriptions in the Dragon Tongue. Sometimes, one of the words will call to me, and I can absorb its power…" At her confusion, I added semi-sheepishly, "It doesn't tend to make much sense until you see it."

She paused for thought. "I think there may be one in the Sanctuary. I always felt a tug towards the wall through our Bond, but I never could figure why…"

Now that was interesting. I had found most of the Words of Power in my travels, but I still had incomplete Shouts, of course. There were just too may words not to. "Really? Do the words look like this?" I stepped away from the forge, and drew the dagger from my boot. Kneeling on the ground, I etched the Shout for Fire Breath—Yol Toor Shul—in Draconic in the dirt.

Avalon nodded as I stood again. "Aye, they look like that—funny little dots and dashes. Though, I suppose, that's because the Dragon Language would have to be written by _Dragons… _what did you call them?"

"_Dovah," _I supplied.

"I like that better." I knew it was probably because _I _did, too. "What was the other thing you called yourself? Not Dragonborn, but…"

"_Dovahkiin," _I supplied.

"Dragon-something?"

"The common translation is Dragonborn. But that isn't necessarily what it means."

"Well, what _does _it mean, then?"

I looked down at my feet. "First of all, names in the Dragon Tongue have three words to them. For example, Odahviing is comprised of _od, ah, _and_ viing. _Snow, hunter, and wing." She nodded as I returned to the forge. "_Dovahkiin _is composed of _Dovah _and _kiin, _which indeed does me Dragonborn. Or it can be broke into _dov, ah, _and _kiin. _Dragonkind, hunter, born."

The irony was not lost on my sister. "The world's best dragonslayer isa dragon?"

"Aye," I replied quietly, as I continued to hammer out Vex's armor. "When a dragon dies and I'm nearby, I can absorb their soul, steal their power. That's why I can use Draconic so easily; I've stolen the knowledge."

"No wonder you make such a good thief," she quipped. Sensing that I didn't like talking about being Dragonborn in great detail or to a great extent, she mercifully changed the subject. "So, you and… whatshisname?"

I rolled my eyes, knowing exactly what she was talking about. "Brynjolf," I supplied, busying myself with hammering out more metal.

I saw Avalon grin out of the corner of my eye. "You and Brynjolf, 'ey? You're really courting, then?"

I caught her gaze for real now, my brow furrowing. "I'm not in a habit of lying about it."

She held up both hands, palms out. "I just wondered if you were oversimplifying things to get me out of Solitude. But it has to be true, what with the way he looks at you."

"Oh come now…" I began.

"Tiberia, I meant that," she interrupted. "Haven't you noticed it?"

"If _you've_ noticed it," I retorted hotly, "why are you bothering to question me about it?"

"You're so _blind…" _Avalon shook her head sadly. "And I'm just confirming things. A Nord and a Dunmer hardly court every day, you know."

That reminded me. "If you knew who my father was," I began, struggling to rein in my temper, "_why did you not tell me!?"_

"First of all, because I don't know the name," Avalon retorted hotly. "Mother merely told me your father was a Nord—she never mentioned _whom. _I'm sorry sister; I don't know that. And second of all, I planned to tell you when you came of age. I saw no reason to ruin what was left of your childhood. I'm just sorry I wasn't there to guard you more."

It struck me then, just how hard Avalon had fought for me, so thanklessly, so selflessly, when I was a child. "Avalon, you did so much…"

"It was not enough!" she replied vehemently. "If it had been, Neva wouldn't have molded you into that timid, frightened creature that was shipped off to Summerset. You would have been a fierce Morwyn warrior, through and through! Had I only been there…"

"Don't beat yourself up over it," I called to her quietly. "You had duties to the Tong as well as your family, and you did them all well and honorably. Can't ask for more out of you than that."

"I suppose." She kicked at some of the fallen leaves littering the ground. "It still feels wrong."

"'I have become who I was meant to be,'" I quoted quietly.

Her head whipped up to look at me. "So you _did _learn something from me."

"I learned _a lot _from you," I told her.

Before she had the chance to reply, loud, thunderous footsteps entered the marketplace and thudded right over to the forge, revealing that they belonged to a pair of Thieves Guild boots. "You know," I said conversationally, without looking up, "you're awfully loud for a thief."

"Look at me!" The footsteps' owner barked.

I brought my gaze to eye level, and found myself going toe-to-toe with a furious Brynjolf. "What's wrong?" I asked, my brow furrowing.

"Drop the act, Ty." He shot me an oh-come-now look. "When was the last time you ate today?"

I paused, actually having to think back on it. "I don't know," I said with a shrug. "You. Don't. Know." He pronounced every word carefully, crisply.

"I've had more important things on my mind…!" I began.

"Tiberia, we're in a _war!" _he burst out. "But that doesn't mean you can neglect _yourself!"_

Avalon was eyeing him confusedly. "Where were you yesterday, then? Surely she was doing the same thing; it's what Tiberia does under extreme duress. Forgets to eat, forgets to sleep… once she forgot to change clothes for a week."

"I was busy scouring the countryside, looking for Dwemer metal for Rune's armor," Brynjolf exploded, "and had to hear this backhand from Farkas! Mercer had to drag you out of the Cistern and _force you _to get some sleep! Unacceptable! You cannot _disregard _yourself for anyone else's sake, Tiberia. You're the most important of all of us! Sweet Mara, you haven't even _eaten _today, have you!?"

I instinctively shrank back from his angry barrage, though I knew I deserved it. Still, I had to ask. "You can tell the Twins apart?"

"Yeah, Farkas is the one that doesn't look like he wants to kill me," Brynjolf retorted. "And don't change the subject. Answer the question."

I sighed. "No, I haven't eaten today…"

"Thought so," he snapped, but his heart wasn't behind it any longer. "Guess what you're doing now?"

"Bryn, I can't abandon this right now…"

"Bullshit, that's plate armor. Imperial by the looks of it. You can let that sit an hour while Keerava fusses over you."

My gut sank. Keerava would be even more furious at my self-depreciating than Brynjolf was. "Shadows preserve me…"

"See," Brynjolf began, coming over to where I stood behind the forge, "you wouldn't have to ask for a Daedra's blessing if you'd just take care of yourself."

"Good luck convincing her, Nord," Avalon laughed, hopping down off the ledge. "I've been trying since she was a child."

"Care to join us?" Brynjolf called to her, earning himself major points for unflinchingly inviting my sister along.

But Avalon sensed something different. "Thank you, but no. I'll leave you two be." She smiled her usual, warm smile, and cast a wink in my direction.

"Suit yourself," I called after her.

Brynjolf reached to grab my arm, tug me away from my work, but he stopped himself just before he made contact. Instead he held his hand out, palm up, reminiscent of a Lord asking a Lady to dance.

I set down the molten metal. "An hour won't kill me, I suppose."

He was grinning as I took his hand, smug in his small victory.


	47. Not So Different

**Hola y tegan un capítulo! Pero, gracias a los lectores, mirónes, y críticos.**

**Y para Las Persons Que No Tiene PM:**

**Guest: Glad the last one took care of your questions :) that was it's purpose. And I agree, angry Brynjolf is scary, man!**

**-)**

True to Brynjolf's prediction, Keerava was utterly furious with me when he casually mentioned how poorly I was keeping myself. She chewed me out for at least a solid fifteen minutes before—mercifully—some out-of-towners entered the pub and asked for a room. She returned to our usual table a few minutes later with two meals (one much larger than her usual portions), and tankard for Brynjolf, coffee for me. "You're not getting mead until you've eaten something good and hot," she rasped in her thick, Argonian alto before I could protest. "And don't even think of leaving until that plate is _spotless."_

She padded away as Brynjolf and I dug in. Funny, I hadn't realized how hungry I was until I reintroduced my stomach to food. Now it was ravenously devouring anything put into it, grumbling at me for not doing this sooner. Keerava, much as I hated to admit it, had been right. To introduce mead to my poor, neglected stomach would have just been cruel.

"No one used to care this much," I muttered darkly to the table.

"Well now they do," Brynjolf answered for it. "_Tough."_

I had to chuckle at that. "So did you ever find any Dwarven metal for Rune?"

"Oh yeah, tons of it," Brynjolf told me with a smile. "It's all in your trunk now."

"How did you…?" My trunk was securely locked, the key around my neck. Then I remembered, this was a group of Thieves, not Companions. "You picked the lock, didn't you?" The grin that broke his face told me the story. "You son of a bitch!"

He laughed, knowing I didn't mean it. "Well, where else was I supposed to put it?"

"_Your _trunk?" I asked pointedly.

He shrugged. "I s'pose. But where's the fun in that?" His evil grin was back.

I was just shaking my head. "You're awful."

He grinned. "I know."

We sat in companionable silence for a while, but I could tell there was something he was dying to ask me. He at least had the sense to wait until we were finished eating, however, to drop that on me. Keerava had taken our dishes away moments ago, leaving the both of us with mugs of coffee (he was drinking it in solidarity with me now, given that I'd refused mead). "Avalon seems… un-elfish?" he offered.

I laughed. "That's just how she's always been. Ironic, no?"

He snorted, staring down at the swirling contents of his mug. "There's no tactful way to approach this," he said finally, "so here goes nothing. What's a Blood Bond? And why would Niruin panic when we asked him, and Vex refuse to elaborate?"

My turn to sigh and stare down the contents of my mug. "Of course Niruin would panic; the very idea is abhorrent to Bosmer. And Vex probably doesn't know the whole story, didn't want to unnecessarily alarm anyone." I let out a worn breath. "How to explain it to someone who isn't a Daedra worshipper…?" I pondered the question, just as I had when Vilkas had asked me about my tattoo, all those years ago.

"Should have known…" Brynjolf was just shaking his head.

"I warned you what you were getting into," I reminded him in a joking singsong.

"I didn't realize just how entwined the Daedra _were _in your life." He sighed, and shook his head. "Too late to do anything about it now, I suppose. Guess you're stuck with me."

Couldn't tell you why that made this weird warmth spread across my heart like butter in a cast iron skillet. Just couldn't.

"So," Brynjolf said, bringing my attention sharply back to Mundus, "the Blood Bond?"

I sighed. Explaining this was always… interesting. "A Blood Bond, you have to understand, isn't something taken lightly. It is more than a joining of blood—it is a joining of souls. Avalon's fights are mine. Her enemies, mine. Her tragedies, _mine_. Her glories, mine. And vice versa. Until one of us perishes."

"This is beginning to sound like a marriage," Brynjolf noted dryly. "And isn't that exactly what Avalon said…?"

"It is. That's a paraphrasing of the oath we took." I then laughed; I couldn't help it. "And you're closer to understanding than you realize."

Brynjolf absentmindedly swirled around the contents of his mug. "So what does your tattoo have to do with anything?"

"You're getting ahead of yourself," I warned him. "First of all, in order to perform a Bonding ritual, both moons must be full, both parties must be as-of-yet Unbonded, it helps for at least one to be Unsullied, and you have to summon a Daedric Prince."

"Unsullied…?"

I forget; he wasn't an elf. "Unused to dealing with Daedra—ergo, spiritually clean. Avalon was our Unsullied. She was a worshipper of Mephala, given that she was Morag Tong, but I was… well, let's just say, I knew my way around a summoning circle, even then."

Bryn's brow furrowed. "How old were you?"

"Fourteen, and stop interrupting or I'll never get through this," I warned him. He dutifully clapped a hand over his mouth, but he couldn't disguise his smile. I rolled my eyes and kept going. "So one night, when both the moons were full, Avalon stole me away from my bed. She and I made our way out to a clearing in the forest near our home with the necessary things to summon the Night Mistress..."

His head snapped up. "Why Nocturnal?"

I shot him a look, which he cowered slightly from out of respect for me, not fear. "Nocturnal is the Daedric Prince whose sphere is night and darkness, and from whose realm our luck comes," I quoted. "Avalon figured we'd need a hell of a lot of luck for me to make it to adulthood, and she to carry out her time with the Tong efficiently and without incident."

Brynjolf sat back like he'd just been socked in the face with a sudden realization. I sighed, and gestured for him to just spit it out. "That's why you're the only one of us with any luck! You're dedicated to Nocturnal!"

"Not dedicated," I corrected, least the _actual _Daedra I was dedicated to overhear him. "She oversaw my Blood Bond. But… you do have a point, there…" I shook my head, trying to dislodge anyway wayward thoughts. _One thing at a time, Tiberia. _"Anyway, Avalon and I summoned Nocturnal, and when she lighted down to Nirn, she asked the standard question: Why do you wish to Bond?

"Avalon said I needed a guardian, and Lady Nocturnal must have seen the fire and the truth in her. I said that Avalon needed a catalyst, and Nocturnal saw the truth in that, too. I saw she saw truth, because she then agreed to oversee our Bond—with one catch."

"There's always a catch…" Brynjolf sighed.

"_Always." _I had to agree with him, there. "Lady Nocturnal said she would Bond us—if we promised to serve her. If one of us did not serve her in life, then one would in death. Whichever died first, actually."

"And you _agreed?"_

"Aye." I nodded. "We didn't really have much choice. So we agreed, forfeiting over our afterlives. Nocturnal then lighted down onto the plane fully, and we began the ritual." He visibly shivered at the word. "Nocturnal asked us the ancient oath. Would we fight for the other? Make enemies and allies with them? Bear tragedy and triumph with them? All this, until we drew our last breath. And so, Avalon's fights became mine. Her enemies, mine. Her tragedies, _mine_. Her glories, mine…" I watched the light of recognition ignite behind his eyes.

"Nocturnal was satisfied with our oaths, so she said it was time to seal this Bond. I went first, drawing Avalon's dagger and cutting my arm with it. Nocturnal then tattooed the Daedric T onto Avalon's arm using my blood—you saw it, on her elbow?" At his nod, I continued. "Then Avalon took my dagger, cut her arm, and Nocturnal tattooed the Daedric Letter A onto my hip."

"So _that's _where it is…"Brynjolf murmured.

I nodded. "I had to be able to hide it, once I got to the Summerset Isles. Avalon didn't have such problems. She tattooed hers loud and proud. Neva saw it; my mother saw it; the Morag Tong saw it. Our oldest sister was furious when she found out. Our mother was proud despite herself. And the Tong threw us a party when they found out."

Brynjolf laughed, and then he paused, trying to phrase his next question diplomatically. "I don't mean to sound crass, but what's the point of a Blood Bond?"

I smiled. "If the need arises, I can call on Avalon's strength, knowledge, and skills to augment mine. If I am close to death, her life force can sustain mine. If we are separated, I can always feel a slight tug towards where she is. And vice versa. We can't teach each other skills—Avalon will never be able to Shout, and I will never be able to sneak nearly as well as she does. But Avalon is a better swordswoman than she would've been, and I'm a better alchemist."

He let out a low whistle. "Powerful magic, there."

I nodded. "Old as the Ayelids. Also why no one talks about it."

He nodded, then asked the ever-popular: "So why go through this in the first place, Ty? Why Bond?"

"Because," I said, slowly, carefully, "my mother had announced my engagement to a Thalmor the week before."

The light of recognition ignited fully behind his eyes. "And suddenly, it all makes sense…"

"Mmm," I agreed, and we receded into companionable silence. He rested his mouth on his fist, his face twisted in thought. I had to break the silence; it was killing me. "You always wear that ring," I said conversationally, gesturing to the silver band around his little finger.

"Hmm?" He withdrew his hand, then realized the one I was referring to. "This one?" He twisted the offending ring, and I nodded. "It's my clan ring." His face broke into a smile.

"Clan ring?" I asked, my brow furrowing.

He smiled. "Surely _someone _has mentioned to you I'm a Clansman of Falkreath Hold? What did you think my father was before he was a thief? He sure as the Void wasn't a tailor or something."

I shot him a look. "Your accent gives you away, if nothing else." His grin grew wider. "So why do you always wear it?"

"A Clansman always wears his ring," Brynjolf said, and it sounded like when I quoted Daedric lore—well-versed, and memorized. "When a son is born into the family, his father commissions a clan ring for the child. The son receives it upon reaching adolescence, and wears it from the day he receives it, on."

"How is that even possible?" My brow furrowed. "Your hand wouldn't be the same size for all that time."

Bryn smiled, happy to be sharing clan lore. "You wear it around your neck until it fits on your hand. They day you can wear it proper is a right celebration…" He grew quiet, melancholy almost.

I knew. "Your ring didn't fit until you were living in Riften, didn't it?" I asked quietly.

One nod. "Aye." A subconscious squaring of his shoulders. "But Raynor took care of it, no harm done."

That silence fell again, that damnable silence. "So you wear it, always? Even when you're asleep or swimming or something?"

Brynjolf nodded, his quick smile back on his face. "There are only three times in a man's life where his Clan Ring will ever come off." He held up three fingers to illustrate.

There was a pause. "Go on…?"

"I can't tell you the rest, lass," he said with a shit-eating grin. "You're not a part of the Clan!"

I threw my hand up in good-natured frustration, which only spurred more laughter from my tablemate. "So what does the design mean?" I asked, tracing a larger version in the air with a finger.

Brynjolf held his hand up to the light, exposing the engravings on the ring. "See the three bands around the middle? Knotted together around he circumference, like a plait?" At my nod, he added, "The top thread is for Family. Not only the one you're born into, but also the one you make for yourself. The bottom one is for Honor and Duty, for those are what hold a Clan upright and together. The middle band is for those who depend on us." He paused. "And that isn't taken in the strictly literal sense. It means tossing a Septim in a beggar's jar as you pass. It means watching out for those who look to you for guidance, protection, advice. It means holding your place in the world with not just dignity and humility, but well-met pride, as well.

"Lastly, we have this." He tapped the center of the ring, where a gemstone would be on a standard piece of jewelry. This one, however, was anything but standard—it had the Hammer of Talos carved into the face of the metal. "This…" he said, tapping the image of Talos again. "…is to remind us of what we are—Sons of Talos, of Skyrim, of the Snow. That is what it means to be a Clansman." He paused, and said his next words very carefully. "Not unlike what it means to be Redoran."

I recoiled in shock. How could he know that? "Duty, Gravity, Piety…" The virtues I'd had drilled into my head since before I could speak. "How do you…?"

"I asked Brand-Shei about it," he interrupted, his face pinking slightly but expression remaining resolute. "He didn't say much more than that about it."

"He doesn't know," I scoffed, "he's Telvanni."

A smile quirked across his face. "So what are they?"

I drew in a breath. "Duty is to one's own honor, to one's family, and one's clan. Gravity is the essential seriousness of life. Life is hard, and events must be judged, endured, and reflected upon with due care and earnestness. Piety is respect for the gods and the virtues they represent. A light, careless life is not worth living…" I trailed off, realizing something. "Same story, different telling."

"Humans and Elves," he murmured into his mug, "aren't so different after all."

"Except your ears are round, and you're _pink," _I noted, hiding a grin.

"I'm not _pink," _Brynjolf scoffed, hiding his grin. "I'm from Skyrim. I'm _white."_

"And Niruin's gold. Doesn't make his ears any less pointed."

We receded into silence once more, contemplating this odd parallelism between races. Most Nords had a bone-deep hatred of Elves, whom they fought with during the time of Ysgramor. The Ancient Snow Elves and the Ancient Nedes warred mercilessly, but (obviously) the humans emerged victorious, mostly because they can breed twice as fast as we Elves. But that hatred worked both ways. We Dunmer, as a general rule, hate Outlanders, want nothing to do with them. And yet…

The Nord didn't hate his mortal enemy. And the Dunmer didn't hate hers.

"By the way, lass," Brynjolf began, interrupting my mental history lesson, "Sorry I snapped at you earlier." He scratched at the back of his neck, a nervous habit he shared with Delvin. "You didn't deserve it. Once again, I let my temper get the better of me…"

I waved him off. "Don't worry about it. That happens to the best of us."

"No, I…" His brow furrowed, the apology sticking to his teeth, as was so common with Nords… well, actually, with men in general.

"Brynjolf," I said, centering his focus. "It's alright; you don't have to explain. I deserved all that…"

"_What?" _He looked shocked. "Tiberia, there were a lot of ways to go about that, and mine wasn't the best of them. I guess I'm more mad at myself than you, in all honesty." He let out a tired breath, and I realized then just then how dark the rings under his eyes were, how world-weary he sounded. "It isn't Mercer Frey and Vilkas Jergenson's job to look after you—it's mine."

"First of all," I said, half-sternly, half-good-naturedly, "I _sent _you to Avanchnzel because I knew you could handle anything the Dwarves didn't have the manners to decommission. Second of all, I can look after _myself, _thank you very much."

"Evidence of the past week says otherwise."

I bit off my retort, and instead out came a choked, "Point."

He smirked good-naturedly. "Don't do that to me again."

My turn to grin crookedly. "I'll try, but I make no promises."

We both stood now, making our way out of the pub. We paused a moment in the alleyway between the Bee and Barb and the Black-Briar Meadery. "If you're not back in the Cistern by midnight, I'm coming after you," Brynjolf half-threatened, half-informed the Dark Elf in his arms.

I smiled despite myself. "I expected nothing less out of you."

"You catch on quick, for a Dark Elf." I could feel him smile through the kiss he planted on my forehead.


	48. Bloodmoon

**And this chapter is from Bryn's perspective. Why? You'll see :)**

**Thanks to all you readers, lurkers, and reviewers :) still love you guys :D**

**And non-PM:**

**Pandababii—haha they're fascinating. Can't forget 'em :D**

**-)**

The next night brought wolves.

I had been sitting in the Flagon, talking things over with Delvin, when the door from the Ratway clanged open. Dirge immediately leapt to attention, hand on the hilt of his axe. The lone figure strode right past him like it owned the place. I rose automatically from my barstool to size up the newest mark. As it came into view, random features became distinct in the murky twilight of the Cistern—silvery grey eyes, reddish-brown hair, long lean legs, armor that protected absolutely nothing important—and the most distinct of all being that it was a woman. She marched right up to me (of all of us in the Flagon, and _I'm _the least intimidating? I would be insulted if Delvin were any older) and said, bluntly, "Brynjolf."

Something clicked. "Aela the Huntress."

A grin broke out across the hard planes of her face. "Farkas was hoping you'd remember."

She was nearly as tall as I was, and I figured that she must be full Nord. "To what do I owe the honor?" I asked.

Had she had malleable ears, they would have immediately pricked up. It was the password. "A companionable thief, my good man," she replied carefully, sealing the pact.

The entire Ragged Flagon breathed out a sigh of relief. If she knew the phrase, she was clean. Farkas hadn't exactly spelled it out for her in his letter, given the cost of it getting intercepted, but the riddle he'd given had been simple enough for the Huntress. For anyone who knew Ty, really.

Aela glanced about the room as it sighed, and I realized she was carrying three knapsacks haphazardly strewn across her back. "Did you really think it would be anyone else?" she asked me as she turned to face me again.

"We're paranoid down 'ere in the Ratway," Delvin said to her from his barstool, doing his best not to ogle. Not only was the woman married to a brute, she could kick his ass just as easily herself.

I expected some sort of crack at the Guild at that, given how the Twins were, but Aela merely nodded and said, "Understandable. And you are…?" After some quick introductions about the room, Aela said to me, "Where is my husband, his brother, and my shield-sister, hmm?"

"Farkas is helping Tiberia at the forge topside," I replied with a jerk of my chin upwards. "And Vilkas is reminding half the Guild of their combat skills. And if you want to dump your supplies somewhere, Tiberia probably has room in her trunk."

She nodded. "And that's… where?"

"Just show the woman the Cistern!" Vex called to me from across the room. "I'm sick of hearing the directions!"

I shrugged, and motioned for Aela to follow me. "Have there been more new arrivals?" she asked carefully as we set off.

I nodded as I pushed open the false wall behind the broom cupboard. "Tiberia's sister Avalon and her…" I struggled to find the right word for Cicero. "…assistant arrived two days ago, and this morning brought two more Brotherhood assassins." At Aela's startled yelp, I hastily added, "Avalon is the Listener; they're on our side!"

Aela's sigh of relief was audible as I pushed through the second door into the Cistern proper. "I had heard rumors that a Listener had been reestablished…"

I shrugged. "For once, they're true. Speaking of which, how far behind you are the rest of the Companions?"

She paused to do some mental math. "About a day's ride, give or take. I'm not sure; I don't go by horseback."

My brow furrowed. "How'd you get here so bloody fast, then?"

Aela paused at the edge of Ty's bed, dumping the three knapsacks onto it. She was clearly mentally debating something, then just gave up. "The Beast Blood."

"Way to give away our best secret, icebrain," greeted a thickly accented voice.

"Vilkas, it's hardly a secret," Aela scoffed. "And I, unlike some people I could mention, am proud of being moon-born."

Vilkas just rolled his eyes and muttered something about Sovngarde. I cocked an eyebrow at the news. "The Companions are werewolves?"

"Only the Circle, and not anymore," Vilkas answered me swiftly. "Only Aela kept her curse."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not arguing this with you any more, Shield-Brother."

Vilkas' smirk said that there was no way in hell this was the end of the argument, but all he said was, "Wise, Shield-Sister."

Vilkas was… well, something wasn't right with that one. I know Tiberia trusted he and his brother with her life, and I trusted the elf's judgment, but that didn't mean I ignored my gut. The man leered down his nose at my Guild, which was more or less to be expected from a Companion, but there was this weird tension between him and Ty that didn't exist between Farkas and my elfling. And that tension is what gave me pause. She had told me on the way to the Throat of the World not so long ago that they had courted for a while, but she never mentioned why—or how—it had ended.

It was just past midday when Tiberia and Farkas reappeared in the Cistern from the forge. I was leaning against the stack of crates, talking with Vex and occasionally sipping from the tankard in my hand. Ty greeted Aela like a long-lost sister, and sat down for the midday meal with the Companions. She and Farkas traded jokes and barbs like siblings, and she filled in Aela with all the war happenings in an easy back-and-forth cadence, and she treated Vilkas much like she did his brother, but he couldn't quite figure out how to react. And then I realized, as I masked my train of thought with a draught from my tankard, the reason for the tension.

She must have been the one to break it; he hadn't wanted it to end. The end result was something I'd seen so many times before. One side was done with whatever had happened, and was perfectly happy being friends. The other wanted to stay friends, but _wasn't _finished with what had gone on, and was trying to make heads or tails of the situation. I almost pitied Vilkas for falling in love with the Dragonborn, but then remembered his vendetta against the Guild—actually, it was probably mostly against me—and it disappeared.

"Brynjolf…" I heard an Elven accent call my name. "Could I talk to you a minute?"

I turned to find Tiberia, rocked to a hip, standing before Vex and I. "Course," I said, arching up off the stack of crates and setting my tankard down on the nearest table. "What's on your mind?"

She shot me a look. It had taken me a while to figure out when Elves were shooting daggers at me, but between her and Niruin, I think I've got a pretty good handle on it. It's the eyes. The no-pupil thing throws me off. "Not here."

"Of _course," _Vex commented with a smirk.

I ignored her, leading the way into the Ratway. We stopped a few paces from the door once we were through, and I turned to face her. "What's on your mind, my friend?" I asked, folding my arms across my chest just out of habit.

She chewed her bottom lip, obviously trying to figure out how best to say whatever was bouncing around her mind. _Gods, she's so beautiful. _The wayward thought drifted across my stream of consciousness. It was true, at least in my eyes. The combination ofethereal, elven beauty, and down-home, Nordic familiarity was just stunning. True, maybe, but completely random and helped the war effort not one bit. And therefore I felt no need to mention it at the moment. Any more tangents would probably send the poor lass into conniptions.

"Bryn," she finally said, snapping my focus back to the moment, "you're aware of how Companions work, yes?"

I nodded. "In twos, aye. Why?"

She rocked back and forth on her heels, and let out a huge sigh. "I'm going to ask Vilkas to be my Shield-Brother for the upcoming fight. I know the two of you don't exactly get along…" She cut off my protests before I could get them out. "…but he's the best Shield-Sibling I've got."

"And what am I, a mage?" I scoffed, mostly to see what her next argument would be.

"No," she said swiftly, and her brow furrowed as she tried to work out a rebuttal in her mind. "Brynjolf, aren't you set to guard Delvin, Cynric, and Niruin anyway?"

"Such things can be changed."

She bit back a scathing retort, and opted instead for what I later learned was the truth. "Look, it has nothing to do with your—or anyone else's—abilities, or lack there of. He's the best Shield-Brother I have because Vilkas is my Soul-Shield."

I failed to see what in Oblivion she was talking about. "Okay…?"

She let out a tired sigh. "It's a very old Companions Tradition. A Soul-Shield is someone whose style so matches and mirrors your own, it's as though they're guarding not you, but your soul. There's a whole ritual you go through…"

I had seen Vilkas sparring in the Cistern, seen Tiberia in a real fight plenty of times. And I realized, he with his greatsword and she with her dual swords would make a terrifying team. "And are you his?"

"Aye, it's a back-and-forth." She nodded. "And it was especially true when we were wolves. I'm not a solitary fighter, Brynjolf. I need a Shield-Sibling, even just to ease my mind. The Guild functions in ones, but Companions always work in twos."

She had a point. "I trust your judgment, Ty, but I don't trust _him."_

"A Companion is nothing without his honor." That sounded like a quote beaten into her skull. "You've got nothing to worry about on that front."

Of course, I saw the wisdom to what she was saying, but that didn't mean I liked it. "You said the two of you courted, back when you were a full time Companion, right?" She nodded. "What broke it?"

Tiberia let out a tired sigh, rubbing her temples with one hand. "Sovngarde. I had to go to Sovngarde to kill the World-Eater. And if I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times—the Tiberia Morwyn that went to the Hall of Valor is not the same one that came back."

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Tiberia was also the legendary Dragonborn. The Dragonborn fought Draugr Deathlords with ease, absorbed Dragons' souls, ran across the province in Daedric Armor, and was the Thane of nearly every Hold. Tiberia was a terrible pickpocket, an expert in lockpicking, debatably mad, and currently courting the Second-in-Command of the Riften Thieves Guild. Reconciling the two women in my head was proving to be quite a chore. "What do you mean?"

She let out a worn breath, still rubbing her temples. "I couldn't tell you."

My turn to shoot her an exasperated look. "Seriously?"

"I'm not being difficult!" She exclaimed, raising her head to meet my gaze head-on. "There just… aren't words for it. Not in this cursed tongue we Men and Mer speak."

"What language _can_ you describe it with, then? Daedric? Dunmeris?"

"Draconic," she said quietly. "_Nol yol se Aaz, Vedod se kiin, Zahrahmiik se Dov, alok. Alok, feyn se dez, ahrk kos Sunvaarseyollokke."_

My turn to be confused. "You do realize I don't speak Draconic?"

"I could translate it," she replied, ignoring me a moment, "but the translation isn't what it … Oh, _fine. _Damn Nord…_" _She drew in a breath. "From the Fire of Mercy, the Black Snow of Birth, Sacrifice of Dragonkind arise. Arise, bane of fate, and be the Beast of the Fire and Skies."

I couldn't help it. "What does that even mean?"

"I have no idea," she said testily. "It's what Odahviing said to me when I returned, but I don't know what it means. In Draconic, I understand perfectly. In this tongue, it might as well be gibberish…"

She was visibly upset. "Hey, calm down, lass." I drew her against my chest. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"It isn't you," Tiberia said, returning the embrace. "I've just been trying to figure this damn thing out for years."

I shrugged. "Some things in life we're just not meant to know."

"Aye, but this isn't one of them. I can feel it in my bones." When a Dark Elf mentions their bones, you know shit was serious. "And anyway, we're getting off-topic…"

"It doesn't matter, go ask Vilkas," I said, smiling despite myself. "By the sound of things, he'll do a better job of looking out for you than I will."

"Don't pretend like you don't prefer fighting alone," she shot back, disentangling herself from me.

"Tiberia," I called after her.

She half-turned back to face me. "Yeah?"

I drew her back to where she'd stood previously. "Don't compromise yourself to fit the ideals of one Guild or the other."

The little elf smiled wanly. "You know I won't." And sealed the promise with a kiss.

-)

All Oblivion broke loose that night in the Ragged Flagon.

It all began when Mercer called me over to his desk earlier that afternoon. Immediately, I answered the summons, materializing before him and asking, "Need something, Guildmaster?"

"Yes…" Mercer said uneasily, closing the business ledger and then leveling me in his gaze. "Listen Bryn, I need you to talk with the Twins. Remind them who they're working for now, 'ey?"

Saw right through that one. "You want me to scare Vilkas a little, knock him down to our level?"

Mercer's grin was more like a smirk. "Astute as always, Brynjolf. It's almost like working with Juri again." My mother had been infamous for her ability to see through to the heart of things—not unlike the way Mercer was now. "Except mouthy like Ceylon." And my father had been known to piss off authority. Mercifully, Raynor had inherited most of that.

I smirked—"You got it, Guildmaster."—and made my way out of the Cistern and into the Ragged Flagon.

Farkas was still topside, helping Tiberia at the forge, so Vilkas was trading stories with his sister-in-law at the bar. "Vilkas!" I called, gesturing for him to come here. "A word, please?"

His brow furrowed—clearly, this was not a man accustomed to taking orders—but he slid off his barstool without a fight, muttering something to Aela before he strode over to where I stood. "What is it you need, Brynjolf?" his tone was level enough, but my name came out like poison.

_Definitely Ty that broke them up. _"Follow me, if you would." I led us out of the Flagon and into the Ratway, not unlike I had earlier today with Tiberia.

When we reached the sewers proper, I turned on heel to face him, folding my arms across my chest. He subconsciously mirrored the pose. "Mercer asked me to talk to you," I said evenly. "Seems you've been scaring some of the Junior members."

Vilkas shrugged. "They asked to train with a Companion."

"They can handle themselves in a fight," I said swiftly, sensing the gravel come back into my voice. "I'm talking about your _act. _Yes, it is common knowledge you hate thieves, _wolf. _I don't know what one did to you in the past, or what one of _us_ did to you personally. Honestly, we've pulled so many heists over the years, I don't even remember most of them. But frankly, I don't _give _a shit. You chose to side with the thieves in this war, and now you're paying the price."

"I chose," he said acerbically, "to side with the _Harbinger."_

"Oh, and that's another thing," I said, one hand involuntarily clenching into a fist at my side. "Whatever happened between the two of you in the past? _Bury_ it. Or you'll see just how the Thieves Guild takes care of business." The threat hung in the air between us, open and dark.

Vilkas' laugh was derisive. "As if she needs the likes of _you _to…"

"I look after all my Guildsiblings," I growled over him. "Are we clear on the matter, _wolf?"_

"Crystal, _thief."_

"Wonderful," I said acidly, and pushed past him back into the Flagon.

Vex sent a questioning glance my way as I joined Delvin at his usual table, but I ignored it. She shrugged and went back to talking with Tonilia. Delvin seemed to sense talking to me wouldn't be his brightest idea, so he wisely kept his mouth shut and pushed a tankard into my hands. Vilkas, meanwhile, claimed a spot at one of the other tables across from his brother, who had materialized during my absence. Tiberia and Aela rounded out their table. _The Companions' inner Circle, reunited once again. _As a full-blooded Nord, I should have felt more pride in that. At present, I was far too annoyed with their Harbinger-Regent to fully appreciate the moment.

Avalon Morwyn, meanwhile, had taken up another table with her Dark Brothers currently in residence. The first was the mad Imperial, Cicero. Rune had discovered that if you gave the Jester a blade, he would happily sharpen it for you if you sat around long enough to listen to him tell stories. (And so Cynric took one for the Guild and kept the fool well supplied with things to sharpen while practiced his archery a stone's throw away.) The second was the Argonian that Ty and I had met in Solitude, a green-scaled Shadowscale by the name of Veezara. He was the most relaxed assassin I think I'd ever met, talking about past kills and the coming war as easily and black humorously as if he were talking about a particularly troublesome housecat. Rounding out their table was a large brute of a man, a blond Nord by the name of Arnbjorn. He wasn't the most personable of sorts, and within the first five minutes he'd been here, and informed the rest of us he was a werewolf.

The Companions had all bristled at this revelation, especially Farkas. I wasn't sure what that meant, but I knew I'd find out before the week was out.

The Morwyn Sisters, I couldn't help but note, were opposite as night and day. Tiberia was dark and sarcastic, while Avalon was bubbly and bright. Tiberia tended to rush into things headlong, while Avalon was well-versed in the arts of subterfuge. The younger was loud, brash, and vicious, while the elder thrummed with a quiet, dangerous energy. They fit their roles of Companion and Assassin perfectly.

And yet Tiberia was also a thief. Not the best in the Guild, by any means. She was simply too honorable to learn the trade as inherently as Vex or Cynric. But she brought to the table something more akin to Niruin, or me. She brought a _tactical mind. _She brought a _legacy. _These things could be almost as (if not more) important than the ability to pick a pocket or smooth talk a merchant.

A growling Mercer took up the chair next to mine. "What's eating you, boss?" Delvin asked in lieu of greeting.

"The Battle for Riften," he grunted, as the townsfolk had taken to calling it. "There is simply no way for ten-odd thieves, ten-odd Companions, and a few random townsfolk can hold off a battalion…"

"Sure there is!" Avalon called from her spot at the head of the Assassins' table.

"…Even if one of them _is _the Dragonborn!" Mercer called back over.

"Hey now!" Tiberia interrupted. "I didn't come all this way just to lose!"

"The odds aren't kind," Vilkas reminded her.

Suddenly, there was the distinctive pop of a portal, and the surge of wind and cold air and energy that always rushed out of Oblivion. "What if I told you I could even them out?"

A man, large as Arnbjorn by the looks of him, stood just before the bar, bare-chested and wearing a kilt stitched together from various animal skins. A great spear was strapped across his back, and he stood proudly, as if he owned the place. What gave him away as a Daedra, however, was the head of a great elk firmly attached to his shoulders. The antlers rose to the ceiling like claws, and his eyes surveyed the scene with the air of predator, not prey. I had no idea which Daedra this was, but Aela took care of that.

"Lord Hircine!" She squeaked, immediately dropping into a kowtow. It was so very undignified and, from what I'd learned, un-Aela that I almost laughed. By the looks of it, Farkas nearly did too. Out of the corner of my eye, and I noticed Arnbjorn stoop into a low bow as well.

But then Hircine spoke. "Arise, my child, and listen those who scorned my blessing!"

Tiberia rose from her place with the poise of a warrior, even as Farkas and Vilkas both cringed. "Lord Hircine, Father of Manbeasts, the Riften Thieves Guild welcomes you, as does the Dovahkiin of Legend." She then said something in another language—probably Daedric, now that I think about its—and Hircine laughed.

"You cannot banish me so easily, little crow," he said, and though the words should have been angry, he sounded amused. "No, I do not come here for the Hunt. I come here to grant unto you my boon."

"You would give us the Blood _again_?" Farkas asked skeptically. "Sounds like a trap."

"Normally human, you would be correct," Hircine acknowledged. "But given the circumstances and the fact that I still owe Sheogorath a favor, I will grant unto you the Beast Blood once more."

"The MadGod, hmm?" Tiberia was smiling.

"Yes, he says hello to his devout," Hircine added, almost conversationally, to the lass. "Also that he is aware he still owes you a strawberry torte and that your impersonation had him in conniptions for weeks."

She bowed. "I ask you to give him my regards as well."

"Noted," Hircine said with nodded, then addressed the Circle as whole. "Children of Talos, I will grant you the Blood of the Beast once more, but should you choose to accept, the repercussions will be the same as before."

"And could we cure ourselves again?" Vilkas asked, carefully sizing up the Daedric Prince before him.

If it's possible for an elk to roll its eyes, then by Talos, Hircine did it. "Should you wish to scorn your blessings once more, aye. Go to the tomb of your Forefather, and summon me. I will cure you, all three at once." He scooped up Tiberia's flagon, dumped out its contents, and then thumped it down on the table again. Hircine drew a hunting knife from his belt, and slashed his wrist with it. The blood rained down into the mug, thick and gelatinous, its sudden contact with the cold air of the Flagon causing steam to rise from the tankard. "Speak with one another if you must—but I will not wait long."

The Twins exchanged a silent look between themselves, and then drew Tiberia into a huddle. With their heads together, bits of their arguments drifted over the rest of the stunned pub. Apparently, to take the Beast Blood was to forfeit your afterlife over to Hircine, and that was why they had cured themselves in the first place. The power was glorious, the hunt, magnificent, but Sovngarde would not await them upon their deaths. And not to mention, the inner wolf magnified some rather unsavory parts of a man's personality. If not carefully guarded, it would overtake the man, and leave him feral. But three more werewolves would mean the scale balanced more in our favor than Ulfric's, particularly so long as we held the element of surprise. They broke their huddle a moment later, and stepped around the table to speak with nothing between them and their Daedric master.

Tiberia, with her head and shoulders thrown back in what I was coming to know as the fierce pride of House Morwyn, clapped one blue-grey hand to the bottom of the tankard, and said, "I will take the Blood."

_Oh, Ty… _I was hardly one to argue the finer points of being a werewolf. But making a deal with a Daedra was never a simple thing. I trusted that Tiberia knew what she was doing, as far as her gods were concerned. The Dunmer always did.

For a moment, both Twins balked at the chance to reclaim their old power. Then Vilkas said, "Hell with it." And clapped his hand over Tiberia's. "I will take the Blood."

Farkas immediately put a hand to the tankard. "I will take the Blood."

"Then drink, mortals." Hircine was smiling coldly. "Drink, and know me. Ladies first."

Tiberia took the tankard in both hands, and winced at the undoubtedly awful stench rising up off the blood within. She steeled herself, then threw back her head and downed the entire contents. She handed the mug back to Hircine as she pressed the side of her hand against her mouth, willing herself not to vomit it all back up again.

Hircine refilled the tankard, and handed it over to Vilkas. Much like Tiberia, he made a disgusted face at the smell, and downed it in two long draughts. He turned a peculiar shade of green, but handed the mug back to the Daedric Prince with a remarkably steady hand.

Once more, the mug was refilled, and this time Farkas took it in one enormous hand. He drained the mug evenly, and slammed the metal onto the table, done. A portal reappeared behind Hircine—"Rejoice in the Hunt, mortals!"—and with another pop, he was gone.

Aela snapped to attention first. "Get out of here!" She barked, slamming her shoulder into Farkas and smacking Tiberia and Vilkas upside the head. "Get outside before you start the change!"

Too late for that, as all three of them doubled over in pain, no doubt as the Beast Blood rushed to reclaim them. "Go!" Aela shouted again, slamming her shoulder into Tiberia. "I will follow with clothes!"

That snapped the elfling out of it. She immediately took off for the Cistern, already unlacing her bracers and awkwardly pulling off her boots. The Twins were right behind her, getting any metal off their persons. Aela took off right behind _them_, cool and clam as though she dealt with newly-changed werewolves every day. _Actually, she probably does. _

A stunned silence was left behind in the Flagon. No one knew what to say, not to that.

Avalon eventually broke it. "Someone get me a drink; my sister's a bloody werewolf."


	49. Harbinger Morwyn, Guildsister Tiberia

**And we're back to Tiberia's point of view. :D**

**Y'know, I'm not sure why chapters have been getting lengthier and lengthier lately, but I think I like it.**

**-)**

I awoke that morning in the Autumnal Forest, still in my wolf form, dazed and confused. I began to take stock of the situation before I completely lost my mind. Farkas' wolf form slumbered on a few paces over, and Vilkas' was snoozing a few paces behind me. I picked up my head, trying to remember how the wolf's body differed from the human. Besides the obvious, my movements were faster, my temperature warmer. I had spent an entire Skyrim winter's night out in the open, yet did not feel cold. Blood magic is some powerful shit.

"Good, you're awake," came a voice.

My head whipped around, and my eyes –still red in the beast form—found their mark on Aela the Huntress. The woman was dressed in her usual armor, so the fact that she wasn't shivering was somewhat of a miracle in my eyes. Of course, being a Dark Elf and all, I'm a creature of fire. "Tiberia, isn't it? Your wolf is a lot like Vilkas', just smaller and… ah, red eyed. I knew it was you." She smiled, and slung a knapsack off her back. "How about you change back while the boys are still asleep, 'ey?"

Seeing the wisdom in that, I reinstated the change. First my fur began to recede, then the claws, then my muzzle shortened and my ears flattened out. Bones broke and shrank, snapping back into place for the woman. And then I was standing naked as my name day in the freezing Rift.

As I dug through the knapsack Aela had handed me, my gut sank. "Aela...?"

She half-turned back to face me, more out of modesty than anything else. "Aye, Shield-Sister?"

"This isn't my armor." I gingerly held up the garment within.

Aela's expression turned to shock. "Shit," was all she said. "I grabbed the wrong bag…"

"You don't say?" I growled.

She winced, the wolf in her shrinking back from my anger, its ears flattening back and tail hiding between its legs. "If you can't figure it out, I can show you…"

I wormed my way into the Ancient Nord Armor as I said, "I'm going to murder you. In your sleep. With a rusty kitchen knife."

Aela just laughed, and the next few minutes were spent showing me how to buckle and lash her customary armor. By the time we were finished, the Twins were starting to stir, and I was shivering. "This protects absolutely _nothing _vital."

"That's the beauty of it," Aela laughed. "It makes opponents so uneasy." She then addressed the Wolf Twins: "Oi! You two! Get dressed; no need to scar our new friends!" She threw the remaining two knapsacks at Farkas and Vilkas' rapidly shrinking forms.

She and I turned our backs to give them privacy, not that it really mattered. We had been werewolves for so long, pack nudity was just a fact of life. An awkward, mortifying fact of life. Farkas' comment—"Gods, I hate cold metal…"—alerted Aela and I that the two of them were once again fully dressed.

"Oh, so _they _get their own armor!" I exclaimed, half-jokingly, half-accusingly to Aela.

Farkas' brow furrowed. "You're wearing Aela's armor."

"Mmm," agreed Vilkas with one eyebrow in his hairline, wisely not trusting himself to speak.

"Really? I hadn't noticed. Figured Skyrim was _always _this cold."

"I said I'm sorry," Aela griped good-naturedly. "Sweet Talos, it isn't like I forgot to grab you clothes _completely."_

I spluttered and gestured to my torso. "You may as well have!"

Vilkas was fighting back a grin. "Poor Dark Elf; you must be freezing."

Farkas came to my rescue. (He could follow his Twin's train of thought almost as well as I could.) "Oh yeah, you Elves aren't so used to cold," said the enormous Nord. "Let's get you back to your friends in the Cistern, eh?"

I could practically smell Vilkas' mood sour. Gods, I had forgotten just how through the wolf's sense were. As emotions rose and fell, we could smell and hear the physical responses. A heartbeat slowed or quickened. Breathing going shallow or deepening. A pulse thumping in new places. Simple, physical responses to emotional consequences.

"Aye," I said to Farkas, "before Mercer calls out a search party. That'd be a way to endear yourself to the man, eh?"

The ears on Farkas' spirit wolf flattened. "He scares me," admitted the larger of the Twins as the Circle in it entirety began the trek back to Riften. "Something about him just isn't right."

"And he smells weird," his Twin commented.

"He does," Aela agreed. "The wolf is bothered by it."

"What do you mean, weird?" I asked, my speech remarkably clear through my chattering teeth.

Vilkas paused. "Weird like… well, _you_, Morwyn."

"_Excuse me?!"_

"What my brother _means_ is," Farkas elaborated with a glare in Vilkas' direction, "Mercer's core scent is a lot like yours."

Something clicked in the back of Aela's mind. "Ancient magic. Frey smells like ancient magic."

"Aye, Tiberia's is old Nord mixed with Daedric," Vilkas agreed, throwing a grateful look his brother's way. "But Mercer's I've never come across."

"Hmm." This was an interesting development. "I wonder if it's Breton in origin?"

"May be," Vilkas agreed. "I've not dealt with Bretons much."

"Us neither," Farkas agreed, gestured to Aela as he spoke.

"Wait a minute," I realized, "how do you know he smells weird if you _just_ got the Blood again?"

"The wolf left claws in my shield-brothers," Aela answered as she lithely stepped over a fallen log. "Farkas' hearing remained improved, and Vilkas' sense of smell was much the same. I suppose spending half your life with the wolf means you're never quite clean."

"Hmm," I said again, pondering this new information.

-)

"I'm sorry, I was under the impression that _I_ was the Alpha here," I shouted, doing my best to keep the Thu'um out of my speech. "Unless something has changed since the last time?"

"No ma'am," said Farkas instantly.

Aela's spirit wolf bared its throat. "No, Harbinger."

I whirled back to face Vilkas, expectant. "Then unless you wish to challenge me for pack dominance…"

"Morwyn!" Farkas hissed in horror. He knew the result of that fight.

Vilkas did too, for instead of commenting, he and his spirit wolf both bared their throats. The submissive gesture of the wolf made words unnecessary.

"I thought so," I growled. "Now you will follow orders _to the letter, _or you will be out of the pack." One finger, seemingly of its own accord, jabbed violently towards the Ratway. "Understood?"

"Understood," said the rest of the pack, with varying amounts of sincerity.

This little altercation, made public courtesy of our spot in the Ragged Flagon, emphasized the major differences between the woman and the wolf. Between the _Dovahsos_ and the Beast Blood, I had a hard time of keeping my cool. I did _not _need insurrection from within the Pack, not with things already on the fast track to Oblivion. Vilkas had more or less been in charge after Kodlak started to deteriorate, and therefore had always had issues bowing to someone else's authority. I'd challenged him for Pack Dominance all those years ago when I'd finally gotten sick of putting up with his shit.

One bloody battle later, I had been named Alpha. And we both had the scars to prove it.

"Remind me not to piss_ you _off," Vekel commented dryly. "'Ey, Elfling?"

It took all my willpower not to bare my teeth at him. I still growled though.

Vex snorted. "Well _someone's_ in a fine mood."

"Sleeping in a forest does that." I turned on heel and strode towards the Cistern, wanting _out _of this damnable armor!

"Don't mind the Harbinger." Farkas' voice drifted from behind me. "She always had a time of it with the Blood."

The Cistern proved to be little better than the Flagon. When I broke in, whatever conversation Brynjolf and Delvin instantly ceased. "Umm…" Brynjolf was having a time of it articulating his thoughts.

"Tiberia…?" Delvin's eyebrow was in his hairline. "Sweet Talos, you look, ah, _different_."

My face was aflame. "Go ahead and say it…"

"_Damn!" _Brynjolf exclaimed, drawing the word into two syllables, just for emphasis.

I visibly recoiled, having not expected that answer. Aela's personality could carry off this open, teasing armor. Mine, not so much. Not to mention, the Nord had a frame better fitted to it, anyway. "Aela grabbed her spare set of armor instead of my Guild armor… speaking of which, where is that?"

"What, and deny Brynjolf the view?" Niruin quipped as he and Cynric passed by.

"Shut it, you!" I barked at him in Dunmeris.

All four men looked shocked at my outburst, even the ones who didn't understand it. Usually, I cracked jokes right back; barking at them was more Sapphire's style. "Are you alright, Tiberia?" Cynric ventured uneasily.

"It's the Blood." Oh joy, Vilkas was now on the scene, and judging from the nearly identical footsteps behind him, so was Farkas. "Morwyn always had a hell of a time controlling the Beast Blood."

I glanced over to my Soul-Brother. "Only at first," I huffed.

He rolled his eyes. "Your temper never evened out until you gave it up entirely."

"Duly noted," Brynjolf muttered.

"My brother's being melodramatic," Farkas assured the assembled thieves. "However bad Morwyn was, Vilkas was worse."

"Ain't that the truth," grumbled a new voice from behind them—one I recognized.

My face split into an ear-to-ear grin. One good thing about the Blood, since lows were even lower, highs were even higher. "Lydia!" I had never been so happy to see a familiar face with no strings attached.

My Nordic housecarl embraced me like a sister, ignoring the steel between us. "Honor to you, my Thane. It is good to see you well."

"And you as well. But what are you doing here?"

Her smile was battle-ready. "The Companions have arrived."

My eyebrows shot into my hairline, and I whirled on the Twins. "How long were you going to wait until you told me this?"

"However long it took for us to get a word in edgewise," Vilkas quipped.

I rolled my eyes and turned to Brynjolf, who was already waving me off. "Go greet your Pack."

"Go on without me for now," I said to the Twins and Lydia, "because first—Guild armor."

Some laughter and half-joking groaning at that.

About ten minutes later, I was dressed in my Guild leathers and feeling much less on edge. "Honestly Aela," I said to the woman as we rounded the corner to the Flagon, "I don't know _how _you can stand it."

"You did alright for yourself Shield-Sister," Aela replied with a smirk. "You still command terror and respect from… well, _everyone. _Vilkas and Brynjolf included."

I snorted derisively, but was spared a retort because at that moment, we found ourselves in a knot of Companions. "Good to see you haven't gotten yourself killed yet," slurred one voice.

That was Torvar, the drunkard who was so knee-deep in debt, the Companions, in good conscience, simply couldn't turn him away. He was full Nord, blond-haired, fond of leather armor and a steel sword, and had taught me how to keep mead down. "Good to see you all here," I replied, clasping forearms in the warriors' greeting.

"I'm still trying to figure out why Kodlak made you Harbinger in the first place," griped a familiar, steely voice. "But I fight with you, Morwyn."

Njada Stonearm in the flesh, battle-painted, and sharp-tongued as always. The skinny, brown-haired Nord never was all that fond of me, but since the feeling was mutual, I had never really minded. She had finally taken my advice and gotten out of her useless hide armor (only to steel, but it was still a step in the right direction), I noted. She had a sword at her hip and a shield on her back. "Something about leadership qualities," I quipped back, and she grinned.

Beside Njada was the overeager young Imperial, Ria. She was still younger than me, brown-haired and openly pretty, at least not when battle painted. It was difficult being hard on the girl, since it had always reminded me of kicking a puppy. She was just so eager to help, so anxious to prove herself. I was prepared to bet it had to do with being a foreigner in the Companions, something I was no stranger to myself. She wore scaled armor and favored a sword and shield, all courtesy of Eorland's forge back in Whiterun. "It is good to see you well, Morwyn," Ria said to her feet.

I grasped forearms with her as I had Torvar. "Good to see you still in once piece, my friend! Farkas and Vilkas can still do _something _right, apparently."

She grinned as I broke away, and felt myself embraced by another. "Morwyn, it is good to see you!" Athis kissed my forehead, an Elven sign of benediction.

Like me, Athis was a Dunmer, and therefore very far from home. More than once during my years as a true Companion had we traded stories about life in Morrowind. He was the quietest Companion, but fiercely loyal to the ideals, and to the Harbinger. Like Njada and Ria, he was war painted, but he wore his in thick white streaks around his red eyes. Athis favored Scaled Armor, like Ria, and the garden-variety sword-and-shield tactics for which Companions were so famous. He was hardly a pushover though, and known to start spellcasting in a pinch.

I returned the benediction. "Glad to see the Nords haven't driven you to Sheogorath yet."

"Not yet," he agreed with a laugh. "But give them a few more years…"

"…And they'll be dead!" I finished the joke.

Behind Athis stood the newer Companions, shy in the presence of the big, bad Harbinger. Closest to me was the tower of gold—Eorland's apprentice, Isembard. The man was a classic Nord—tall, blond, and bearded—but blind in both eyes. How he managed to fight in full Dwarven armor and wield a greatsword was beyond me, but he had proven his honor and that was good enough for the Companions. Not to mention, the man was an outstanding smith. So much so, the Gray-Manes had eventually adopted him into the clan so that he could work the Skyforge in the years to come.

"Harbinger," he greeted me with a stoic nod.

We clasped forearms. "Isembard, how fares the Skyforge?"

The only way to get Isembard to smile is to ask him about his work, and even then, it's pretty faint. "It fares well—young as ever, Harbinger Morwyn."

I clapped him on the shoulder. "Good to hear, my friend."

Behind Isembard stood the other Whelp, who had only recently earned his status as true Companion. A skinny, brown-haired Imperial by the name of Claudius, he had come to Skyrim to join the legion. Upon stumbling across Jorrvaskr, however, he fell in love with what we do and had been around ever since. He wore Imperial light armor, and favored a steel war axe. Currently, he and Lydia were also courting.

"Claudius, good to see you haven't left for Cyrodiil yet!" I laughed as he clasped my forearm in greeting.

He laughed with me. "Sometimes in the middle of Evening Star, I do ponder…"

I stayed in the Flagon with my shield-siblings for a few moments, but eventually had to make my way topside. I had armor to finish. Farkas came with me and before long the two of us were back at the grind. I would forge the metal, hammer it out, shape it, and he would fit it to whomever it would belong, tan leather, and fetch metal. By now, it was practically routine.

"How are you holding up, my friend?" I asked as I pounded away at yet another set of steel armor.

Farkas gave but one shrug of his massive shoulders. "I lived with the wolf for more than a decade the first time around, Morwyn. A few more months won't kill me. But how are _you _holding up? That's a more important question."

"Nonsense," I scoffed. "I'm no more important than any other member of the Pack."

Farkas actually stopped what he was doing to shoot me a look. "Morwyn, that's rather noble of you, but you're deluding yourself. You're Harbinger, Dragonborn, Alpha, Guildsister, Soul-Shielded, and Blood Bonded. There are a _lot _of people counting on you. You're a hell of a lot more important than a mere Companion."

Farkas was just telling his truth, and I knew he was, but I still hated hearing it. "I'm not some god, Farkas. Just an elf. An elf in _way _over her head in Nord affairs."

Farkas smiled sadly, clapping me on the shoulder. "Tiberia Morwyn, you were never _just _an anything."

Before I could ask him what he meant, a new figure announced its presence. "You!" a voice called. "You're one of Mercer's Boys, yes?"

I half-turned to face this newcomer. "Excuse me?"

"Oh!" A tall, blonde, Nord woman stood just before the forge, embarrassed by her faux pas. She wore banded iron armor, blue woad across half her face, and a large two-handed battle axe was strapped across her back. "I'm sorry, I…"

_I don't have time for this!_ "What do you want, Mjoll?"

Mjoll the Lioness was infamous throughout the Guild for her hatred of all we did, all we stood for (and I'm talking about more than just the thievery). She dedicated her life to cleaning up the 'crime and corruption' of Riften. Didn't she realize the Jarl was so out of it, she didn't even know her steward was cutting deals with Delvin Mallory? Didn't she know her beloved Black-Briar Mead had only been made possible by the Thieves Guild's intervention?

She seemed taken aback by my forwardness. "Yes, well. You're the Dragonborn, are you not?" At my nod, she added, "And yet you wear the armor of the Thieves Guild?"

I rocked to a hip, folding my soot-covered arms across my torso. "What of it?"

Mjoll shook her head. "I can't believe I'm saying this to a thief…" She shook her head. "Is it true Riften is under attack? That the Thieves Guild is gearing up for war?"

"Aye, Ulfric Stormcloak is marching on Riften as we speak," said Farkas, now standing behind me like a stone watchdog. "Who wants to know?"

Mjoll bowed her head. "A soldier."

My eyes widened. "You wish to fight with us?"

She nodded, raising the level of her eyes back to mine. "I heard Brand-Shei and Grelka talking to you about the war the other day, but I didn't believe you were Thieves Guild, not really. Being seen in Brynjolf's company doesn't make someone a criminal. But that armor…" she shook her head. "That's Guild armor, all right."

"You still haven't answered the question," I prodded.

She let out a breath skyward. "Aye, I wish to fight for Riften, even if it means an alliance with the Thieves Guild."

I clapped her on the shoulder. "Welcome aboard, then. Your steel is most welcome."

Mjoll and I traded jabs a few moments longer, and then she disappeared into the marketplace again. There was silence a moment, then I murmured to Farkas, "I'm worried about what the Blood will do to your brother."

"Me too," he agreed in a hushed undertone. "But there are too many things in motion now to stop any one of them."

"I know," I agreed. "That's what worries me."


	50. Laments of the Dead, Told by the Living

**Hey all you readers, lurkers, and reviewers :) Hope this one clears up some questions (and produces several more :3).**

**And non-PM peeps:**

**Jem1912: Thank you, glad you enjoy. And yep yep, Ulfric is one confusing character :3**

**-) **

That night, I entered the Ragged Flagon via the Ratway, and called out, "Oi! Thrynn! " And immediately thumped a set of Scaled Armor into his arms. "This is yours!"

"Thanks!" was the reply, and Thrynn immediately was looking over his new set of armor. "This is high-quality work, Ty."

Isembard motioned towards the armor, asking to see it in that silent way of his. Thrynn handed it over easily enough, and the Companion ran his hands over the forged metal and leather, testing it out. "Not bad," he commented in that stoic way of his. "I could have done better."

Thrynn was spluttering in disbelief as Mercer called over to me, "Tiberia, how many more sets of armor do you need to forge?!"

"None!" I replied with open relief. "That was the last of it!"

"And tomorrow is the fifth day," Vex reminded ominously.

'Then we celebrate now," Delvin said simply. "In case we don't have the chance to later, eh? Besides, if I'm going into battle tomorrow, I want to know I spent tonight well."

"I hear that!" Farkas called with a laugh.

"Aye!" Avalon agreed.

There are a lot of ways to take that, but I went for the only way that would ever combine Thieves, Companions, and Assassins into one fighting force. "Scar or Story," I called. "Let's get a game of Scar of Story going."

Mercer's eyes widened as Brynjolf said, "That's bloody brilliant." Clearly, both were thinking exactly what I was.

Ten minutes later, every last occupant of the Cistern and the Ragged Flagon was gathered in the latter. The game was quickly explained to the Brotherhood and the Companions, the helmet and scraps of paper were passed around, and tankards were passed out. Vekel actually ran out of them, and several people wound up with naked bottles of ale or mead. Not that anyone minded; the whole point of this game is to get drunk enough to start talking.

"Tiberia!" Mercer called to me from his vantage point across the room. "Since this was your idea, you start! Scar or Story?"

I was perched on the bar, with Brynjolf to my right and Tonilia on my left, though she was actually sitting on one of the stools like a normal person. "Story!" I called, gesturing for the story basket to be passed my way. I reached in, and grabbed a slip of paper. "Song from your childhood…" I paused, my brow furrowing. "Hey Athis! Do you have your fiddle?"

The Dunmeri Companion shook his head, but Rune piped up, "We could get him one. Why, though?"

"I know what you're singing, sister dear." Avalon was grinning. "And I must say, I whole-heartedly approve. I do wonder, though—what has a decade done to your voice?"

"A decade?" Sapphire asked.

Avalon nodded. "Mmm. If she's singing what I think she is, then the last time I heard this would have been a decade ago. And she could sing the shit out of it _then."_

The Guild rustled up a violin for Athis, who drew the bow across the strings experimentally, then nodded to me. "_The Night's Mistress?_" he asked, being a Dark Elf and knowing me.

I nodded, and he began the eerie, lilting chord progression. The violin wept in his arms, somewhere between overjoyed and over-sorrowed. And a few moments later, I joined him with the lilting, minor melody:

"_There was once, a maiden fair,_

_Grey of skin, and dark of hair,_

_With eyes full of fury and of fire._

_Azura's curse, ne'er for she,_

_Was a cause of misery,_

_But beauty was not her desire._

_See, she didn't want the life,_

_Of a nobleman's wife,_

_Though he loved her so._

_She was born for other things,_

_It's the caged bird that sings,_

_And away this life, she would throw."_

I waited for Athis to finish the interlude before switching keys with him:

"_The forest strong, it was so near,_

_Her place was far away from here…"_

And just like that, it went back to its original key:

"_He told her:_

'_When you lose yourself,_

_Find the mirror, shows someone else,_

_You'll be safe right here, under my wings.'_

_She said, 'To be safe in your arms,_

_Would do me not good, but harm._

_To do so would only clip my wings.'_

_So she played her part a while_

_With a dutiful smile_

_And none of them ever saw her sorrow._

_Oh, it was her wedding night_

_That the caged bird took to flight._

_In the end, she was gone by the morrow._

_And she stole away that night,_

_Guided by Red Mountain's light._

_The woman was one with the Shadows._

_The maiden slipped between the guards,_

_Using not her blade but charms_

_Swift as an arrow from a bow._

_And who should appear; who had the gall?_

_None but Lady Luck: The Mistress Nocturnal!"_

Avalon joined me with a simple, lilting harmony as the refrain repeated itself, but slightly altered:

"_Should you lose yourself,_

_Find the mirror shows someone else,_

_The only option left is to fight._

_If to none belongs your heart,_

_And you're a Child of the Dark,_

_The only option left is flight."_

_The Night's Mistress, said she:_

"_Child, what might you be?"_

_And the maiden was shaking in her fear_

_The mistress spirited them away,_

_Like the cold light of day_

_And with the grin of yesteryear,_

_She strode towards the shaking lass,_

_With the heart of ebony and glass,_

_With the intent of working out a deal._

_She said, "What can you do for me,_

_Little bird who longs to be free,_

_Little crow under Fortune's grinding wheel?"_

_And then the maiden transacted the oath_

_Headless as a devout of Sheogorath!"_

There was as bit of laughter at that. But then, that was to be expected from the Thieves Guild. They knew Sheogorath from my impersonation, not from Daedra worship.

"_And she who stole away that night,_

_By the Red Mountain's light,_

_Was put at the mercy of the Daedra._

_She had found it could be done;_

_She could win her own freedom_

_Only to have it stolen back later._

_And flutt'ring she took to the skies,_

_Higher than a child's cries,_

_Rising higher through the snow and sleet._

_You see this freedom that she'd won_

_Was tainted and broken_

_Brought feathers to arms and talons to her feet._

_And legend says, you'll see her still,_

_Upon the shoulder of Nocturnal!_

_So she who stole away through night_

_By the Bloodmoon's light,_

_Was cruel as the mercy of a Daedroth,_

_The Nightingale sings now as crow,_

_And time and scars will always show:_

_How power is the flame to every little moth."_

A common Dunmeri song, one I'd always attached myself to as a child, for obvious reasons. I knew that feeling of being trapped, being caged, wanting the freedom to soar the skies. And though Neva and Avalon had always been better musicians than myself, I could carry a tune like any self-respecting elf. And this song had always (pardon the pun) struck a chord within me. As the last strains of Athis' borrowed fiddle died away, a smattering of applause broke out among the assembled warriors.

My face redder than my eyes, I turned to Tonilia and asked, "Scar or Story, my friend?"

She paused a moment, then said, "Scar."

And so it went. The Companions fell easily into the rhythm of the game, joking and laughing with the rest of us. The Brotherhood needed more prodding, given the kinds of people assassins usually were, but they too joined in the fun after the following story was told.

"Scar or Story?" Veezara asked my sister when their turns came and went.

"Story," said Avalon with a smile, and reached into the iron helmet being passed around. She unfolded the piece of paper, and a slow grin spread across her face. "The nicest thing anyone's ever done for you. Well…" She sat back, pondering this a moment. Then her grin turned feral. "There's always the time my little sister killed my husband."

The laughter from the assassins was uproarious; the shock from the Companions was tangible; and the amusement of every last Guildsibling was not because of what Avalon said, but because they remembered Cyrano.

"Okay, okay, more accurately," Avalon continued, throwing her hands up, "Tiberia _had _my husband killed."

_ "Now_ we're getting somewhere," Vex laughed from her vantage point atop the stack of crates at the perimeter of the room. Delvin was leaning against the crates just below her. "How'd this happen?"

"Beautifully." Avalon was laughing as she thought back. "Years and years ago, I was married to a nobleman of House Dres, man by the name of Mordred. It was mostly to improve inter-House relations, since I couldn't stand the man. But I'm Redoran, we prize duty to one's honor, family, and clan. So although I was Morag Tong and could easily have slipped poison into his drink to spare myself the misery, I didn't.

"Something of note, my mother was getting on in years by the time she had Tiberia. Neva and I practically raised the kid, since my mother was often not even in the country." She gestured to me, who nodded through her laughter. I knew _exactly _what she was talking about. "And Neva and I were always careful with what we'd say around the youngest sister. I mean, you can hardly plot an assassination or worship Boethiah with a child in the room." Nods of agreement from the assembled, ragtag army. "And, _of course, _the one time Mordred comes to home with me results in one of our worst fights ever.

"See, he was getting pissed that I couldn't conceive a child. I told him I had no control over that." I couldn't help it; I burst out laughing. Several of my friends turned to glance at me, but Avalon was laugh as well. "And yes, Tiberia knows I lied. I was drinking Moon Tea by the _gallon_…"

That actually got most of the women in the room laughing. Moon Tea was the most powerful contraceptive potion around, and it wasn't cheap. "And Mordred had a temper on him. It wasn't uncommon for me to walk out of those arguments bruised." Two steady growls came from the Twins' vantage points at that. "Of course, so did he…" Vex's sharp laugh cut through everyone else's like a knife. "And anyway, I later learned that Tiberia had overheard this lovely fight, and had decided to take matters into her own hands."

"Keep in mind, people…" Avalon paused and glanced about the room, just to make sure everyone was listening. "…Tiberia was _ten. _Ten years old when she snuck out of the house to meet up with one of my Tong friends. Ten years old when said friend brought her to the Tong's citadel in town and guarded her when they dove into the criminal underbelly. Ten years old when she stood before the Guild Master, offering a contract.

"She said she wanted Mordred Dres killed, and everyone was either laughing or staring at me_. _Now, I had no idea she was going to do this, and I sure as Oblivion didn't put her up to it. And so the Guild Master—who was clearly amused—asks, why Mordred? And Tiberia replies, 'He is a threat to the honor of House Morwyn, and will be eliminated.'"

"Couldn't have said it better myself!" Athis called. "Ten years old and speaking like a politician!"

"So the Guild Master," Avalon continued with a nod in Athis' direction, "who is now significantly less amused and more businesslike, asks what she's brought as payment. And you know what it was?" She looked to me for the answer, already fighting laughter.

I smirked. "Neva's ceremonial House armor."

Laughter ricocheted from the walls, especially the assembled elves. "She brought _Neva's armor!" _Avalon cackled. "I don't even know how she got her _hands _on it, but by Mephala, she did! And so the contract was accepted; Mordred was killed. And I've been a _poor widow_ ever since." That last sentence was so drenched in sarcasm, I felt the need to look for an umbrella. Avalon paused as though lost in thought. "Never did find out what happened to that armor." She turned to Isembard, who was on her left. "Scar or story?"

"Scar," said the gruff Companion. He gestured to his sightless eyes. "My life's greatest joy is also my greatest sorrow. For you see, it was forge-embers that blinded me when I was just a boy."

"You're still a smith?" Rune asked dubiously.

"Aye," Isembard replied, ignoring the confusion in Rune's tone. "I was born into a family of them, raised to work the forge and to fight for my beliefs. But this…" He tapped the skin just below his eye, signifying his blindness. "…happened when I was just a lad. My father was teaching me how to work with iron—a simple, inexpensive metal. So my da is striking up the fire and says to me, 'bring an iron ingot over, would you?'

"So I go and get one from the stockpile, but as I'm bringing it over, I trip and slam into the wall around the forge." He drew a circle in the air with his hands to demonstrate. "And the fire…" he closed his eyes, as though that would block out the image in his head. "…the fire crackled to life just as I was falling. The embers blinded me that day." He shrugged. "And I've been living life like this ever since." He turned to Farkas and said, "Scar or Story?"

The wolfman cast a glance around the room and said, firmly, "Scar."

He unlatched the side of his steel armor, and pulled the cuirass over his head. It was shortly followed by his tunic, leaving the larger of the Wolf Twins standing shirtless in his breeches in the Cistern. He turned his back to the circle, exposing the large, x-shaped scars on his back. The only thing I knew could do that was a set of werewolf claws. "Arnbjorn gave me this one when I was fifteen."

The Dark Brothers and Sister all shot the blond werewolf the same questioning look, but he was transfixed at Farkas' scars. "I don't remember that…" he murmured.

"You were drunk," Farkas replied tonelessly, and I knew he was struggling to keep from exploding. "In those days, Arnbjorn was a full Companion, well on his way to making Circle. But he had a temper on him, and the old Harbinger, Kodlak Whitemane, didn't particularly approve of his methods of taking care of business.

"So one night, Arnbjorn stumbles into Jorrvaskr, drunk as a skunk and with some pretty young thing on his arm. And she sees Vilkas and me, and is _instantly _confused. She says, 'I thought you said you were a _Companion, _not a nursemaid!' and she detaches herself and disappears out the door before he can even register what just happened. Personally, I think she realized Arnbjorn was more brutal than honorable, and took the first chance she got to escape."

Arnbjorn growled from across the way, but I silenced him with a snarl of my own. He backed off, submitting to the Alpha, and I gestured for Farkas to continue.

"Problem with that was," continued the man with the Strength of Ysgramor with a grateful nod in my direction, "now Arnbjorn blamed _us _for her leaving. So he screams something at us—I don't remember exactly now, just that it was insulting—and lunges at Vilkas, who's closer to the door." Farkas jerked a thumb at his twin.

"So what do _I_ do?" Farkas shrugged. "I shove Vilkas out of his way. Arnbjorn's already halfway between man and wolf, and he slashes at my back." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder now, clearing referring to his scars. "So I start the change myself, and Kodlak found the three of us, all wolves, about five minutes later when he came up to investigate the noise. He roars over us at how stupid we're being, takes Arnbjorn downstairs and orders Vilkas to clean up my back.

"The next day, Arnbjorn was gone and his room was empty." Farkas leveled his silver-grey gaze at the older werewolf. "We later learned that Kodlak had dishonorably discharged him."

"Now that I remember…" the blond wolf muttered.

"So that's what he was so angry with…" Brynjolf muttered next to me.

"Hmm?" I whispered back.

He shook his head. "When Arnbjorn walked into the Cistern, all the Companions were furious. No one could figure out why. Guess that's it."

Farkas, meanwhile, slid back into his tunic and said to Aela, "Scar or Story?" as he buckled the steel cuirass over it.

"Scar," she said with a nod, and slid one of her bracers off, leaving it on the table behind her. A white scar—another claw mark—marred the skin on her forearm. "Morwyn!" she called to me. "Do you mind if I tell this story?"

I paused, brow furrowed. Then it broke into a grin as I asked, "Is that from my first turning?" She nodded, so I added, "Go ahead!"

Aela grinned as she began the story. "I'm sure it's obvious by now, but the Inner Circle of the Companions—currently Farkas, Vilkas, myself, and Morwyn—have been werewolves for generations. Kodlak was Skjor's forebear, who was Arnbjorn's, who was Vilkas', who was Farkas', who was mine, who was Morwyn's.

"Now, Skjor and I didn't exactly _tell _the rest of the Circle we were turning Morwyn because at this time, Kodlak was trying to find a cure and the Circle was split over whether to give up the Blood or keep it. And we didn't force her!" Aela was quick to add that. "We asked her if she wished to join with the Beast World. And she did.

"And so we went through the actual ceremony, not the unceremonious blood drinking of the other night…" She shook her head in annoyance. "But Morwyn… her beast is strong. I think the _dovah _in her might have something to do with that, but what do I know?" Aela shrugged. "Anyway, so her wolf breaks out of the Underforge and starts wreaking havoc on Whiterun Hold. And Skjor and I…" She shook her head sadly. "We couldn't overpower her. So we had no choice but to go to Farkas and Vilkas…"

The room winced in unwitting unison. "Sweet Talos…" someone muttered.

"The argument wasn't pretty," Aela said simply, shuddering at the memory. "So the Twins are halfway to wolves before they've even hit the Underforge, Skjor and I right behind them. We manage to find Morwyn's beast in the forest, and when I tried to pin her, I got this." She tapped her forearm. "It was a vicious brawl, got the wind knocked out of me. Vilkas here…" She nudged the Twin on her left. "…finally just knocked her out. Ordered me and Skjor to haul her back to Jorrvaskr before she woke up."

"And you went to a Silver Hand Camp instead," Vilkas interrupted with a roll of his eyes.

Aela's smile was sad, and Farkas put an arm around her. "And we lost Skjor that night because of it," she said quietly. "He should _not _have fought without a Shield-Brother!" Before she started dwelling too much on the past she roughly said to Vilkas, "Scar or Story?"

"Story," he said after a moment, reaching into the iron helmet. He withdrew his hand a moment later, and an eyebrow shot into his hairline. "Sweet Talos, you've _got_ to be kidding me."

Thrynn, who was seated next to him in the circle, glanced over Vilkas' shoulder, then howled in laughter when he read what the slip said. "Most memorable bedding experience, 'ey?"

Vilkas was still in disbelief. "Who even _wrote_ this?"

"That's not part of the game, lad," said Delvin with a smirk. "And what? Does the big, bad Companion have too many to decide?" He was mocking a Companion; Delvin Mallory was _mocking _a Companion!

Miraculously, Vilkas ignored the Breton's sarcasm. "No, there's definitely one that stands out. But I, um, don't think I should tell it with the lady in the room." My gut sank. _Oh sweet Meridia, no. _

The room turned to look at Njada, who happened to be sitting near Avalon and Sapphire. "Oh, _please," _she said with a roll of her eyes.

"That's right, " Athis laughed. "We're still not even sure Njada _likes _men."

"Shut up, elf."

The room turned to Ria before the argument could unfold further. But the Imperial just shook her head, mortified and eyes wide. So then attention was drawn to Aela, who shot a vicious look in the general direction of the gathered hodgepodge and gestured pointedly to Farkas, very clearly stating, "I'm married to his _brother."_

"So who does that leave?" Niruin asked.

Njada, Ria, and Aela all rolled their eyes and gestured pointedly across the room. "_Morwyn!" _they chorused.

The room now turned to stare at me, who was sitting cross-legged on the bar, one hand waving sarcastically and the other bouncing a fireball in its palm. "Be _very _careful what you say, Shield-Brother," I called out, sounding dangerous even to my own ears.

"As I said," Vilkas transitioned smoothly, "I won't tell the story with the lady in the room."

"Then can we put her outside?" Avalon piped up. "I mean, r_eally. _That isn't something you can just _drop _in conversation and expect everyone to ignore!"

At my side, Brynjolf shifted in discomfort, and I felt my face burn in embarrassment.

"No," Vilkas said firmly, twisting in place as he searched for his tankard. "I've got too much respect for the Har… actually, to Oblivion with that. I just respect Morwyn too much, and she's like as not to kill me for mentioning it. Now where is that blasted thing…?"

"I agree with Avalon, you don't get to drop something like _that_ and not pick up the pieces," said Cynric, somehow managing to have stolen the tankard right out from under the wolfman's nose. "You don't want to tell that part of the story, fine. Just frame it. Tell us the how and why, but we don't need the details. Mercer used to have to do this whenever Indigo came up."

There was Karliah's nickname again, but right now I had bigger things to worry about. I could feel myself blushing furiously, inwardly cursing myself for suggesting we play this game. But Vilkas, realizing he had been outmaneuvered by my overly-curious Guildmates, let out a worn sigh. "Morwyn," he said tiredly, "is first and foremost, Dovahkiin. So when the master of the Greybeards told her that in order to kill the World-Eater, she'd have to travel to Sovngarde, who were we to disagree? We're naught but men, mortals. But she…" He gestured to me. "…_She _is _dovah. _Dragon. Immortal. It was late Midyear, just before the solstice, when Morwyn trapped the great dragon Odahviing within Dragonsreach…."

"You, Aela, and Farkas were there for that!" I interrupted in a herculean effort to overcome my mortification. "Come now; if you're going to start form there, at _least _tell it right!"

Some snickering rose from within the ranks of the Companions (and the Guild, for that matter) and it even elicited a small smirk from Vilkas. "Aye, the rest of the Circle was there, but we didn't do much of anything!" he shot back. "And anyway, when Morwyn walks up to Odahviing, and they introduce themselves in the way of the dragons, and then the whole place hears Odahviing inform her that although her Dragon Blood would open the path to Sovngarde, there was no way to get there without the _wings _of a dragon. And so he offered to fly her—and only her—to the gap between worlds in exchange, obviously, for his freedom. We trapped him at dusk; he gave her until dawn.

"So we go back to Jorrvaskr and argue about it. Obviously, my brother, Aela, and I didn't want her to go; it was suicidal! Everyone—Morwyn herself included—fully believed that to go to Sovngarde would mean her death." Some nods of assent from the rest of the Companions. "And _still, _she wanted to go. Not because she wanted to die, but because she knew that the World-Eater had to be killed, and she was the only one to do it."

"Call him by his name, Vilkas," I said quietly. "_Alduin." _The very word made people cower in fear, cringe in terror, conjured up images of burned towns and charred remains.

"I remember distinctly," my Soul-Shield continued in a quieter voice, and the Cistern was silent below his words, "her reasoning. No one person, no matter _who_ that person may be, is worth more than anyone else. Therefore, if the death of one could mean the lives of so many others, than that death was a necessary sacrifice. Add in the fact that only the Dragonborn could defeat Alduin, and that she had already taken the evil that was Dragonrend into herself… there was no one else."

He snorted, un-fathoming, before continuing. "She even asked us not to sing praises of the Dragonborn after she was gone—can you _imagine?" _Every Nord in the place shook his head no, shocked and unable to fathom the request. "So the argument was over and the four of us are sitting and staring into the fire with tankards of mead in our hands, same as we did every night. And I said to Morwyn, 'Is this truly how you want to spend your last night on Nirn?'

"And she looked at me and said, 'No. Let's celebrate.' 'Celebrate what?' we asked, and she said, 'Anything, nothing. Life, love, liberty—pick something.' So we rounded up the rest of the Companions and made our way over to the Bannered Mare." Vilkas drew in a steadying breath. "And we drank and we ate, and we brawled and we sang, and we lived the life Talos grants to his warriors! But it was _hollow." _Vilkas slammed his dagger into the table as he spoke the last word, the solid thud making the silenced room jump. "It was all hollow…

"Because no matter how much we needed our Harbinger, no matter how much we loved Morwyn, no matter how much she didn't deserve to die… it didn't matter." His voice was growing hoarse under the weight of the story. "She was Dragonborn—_Dovahkiin_—and her destiny was to kill the World-Eater, even if she gave her life in the process.

"So by the time we Companions stumble back into Jorrvaskr, everyone is drunk as a skunk. We fall into our own beds that night—Farkas and Aela, included. Why? I couldn't tell you." He shrugged. "So it got to be, maybe half an hour after we got back, and I hear a knock at the door. I go to open it, and there's Morwyn standing there, wide-eyed and haunted, and all she says is, 'Mind if I come in?'

"And I said 'no, of course not…'" Vilkas paused, and I could tell he was trying to find a delicate way to explain what happened next. If I closed my eyes, I could see exactly the night he was talking about, feel the cool darkness of Jorrvaskr and the warmth of another soul. "So we sit and talk a while, about everything and nothing, about Ysgramor and Alduin. And I realized, even though the Blood makes us restless, it wasn't Beast Blood, or _Dovahsos, _or whatever makes Elves wander that kept her from sleep." He waved a hand in the air, as though clearing away smoke. "This was Tiberia Morwyn, Dragon of the North, terrified of dying.

"And so I said as much to her, and she just called bullshit." Unexpected laughter bubbled up from the silent crowd. That sounded just like me, just like Vilkas. "And I kissed her then. And, well…" He shrugged. "Since I'm telling this story in response to that prompt, I'm sure you all know what happened next."

I remembered that, too. The utter terror that drove me out of Vaermina's realm, and into Vilkas' arms. I hadn't intended it to go that far, but had figured since I was dead anyway, what did it matter? I bowed my head, resting it in my hands, my feet on one of the empty barstools below. Maybe if it hadn't happened, Vilkas and I would still have that hardheaded rapport we once had.

"She awoke just before dawn." Vilkas' rough, accented voice slammed through my thoughts. "Woke me up when she disappeared. I didn't even realize until later that she'd left me a note…" His voice was going toneless; he was struggling to keep the wolf in check through his sorrow, his anger. "And every last one of the Companions stood outside on the steps leading up to Jorrvaskr, and saw our Harbinger, our Morwyn, fly on the wings of a dov into the sunrise, into Sovngarde." He paused a moment. "And we never saw that Morwyn again."


	51. To War, Gentlemen

'**Allo, all my wonderful readers, lurkers, and reviewers :D Have another chapter, eh?**

**And to the non-PM crew:**

**Jem1912: Vilkas meant the same thing Tiberia did—that who she was before Sovngarde was not the same as who she was after.**

**-)**

That night, I tossed and turned in my cot in the Cistern for hours. The Beast Blood offered minimal sleep on a good day—take into consideration what had been said during Scar or Story, and it was a miracle I got any sleep at all. I hadn't realized Vilkas still loved me, not like _that. _Sweet Talos, not like that! It broke my heart to know that _I _was the cause of so much of my friend's suffering—the friend whose Soul I had sworn to Shield—but there was nothing to be done. It was no one's fault, what happened in Sovngarde. It was no one's fault, what happened the night before, and for weeks after. Put simply, going to Sovngarde had affected me so profoundly I was just never the same. The part of me that had loved Vilkas had died there. Died in the hellfire and buried in the ashes. I had come back a shell—hollow and haunted. And I realized, that void within me hadn't begun to fill until I'd joined the Thieves Guild.

I have trouble putting the Sovngarde Incident into words in this tongue. The Draconic I had told Brynjolf explained it perfectly, and yet… the translation was garbled, prophetic argot. _Nol Yol se Aaz, Vedod se Kiin, Zahrahmiik se Dov, alok. Alok, feyn se dez, ahrk kos Sunvaarseyollokke. _From the Fire of Mercy, the Black Snow of Birth, Sacrifice of Dragonkind, arise. Arise, bane of fate, and be the Beast of Fire and Skies.

Giving up on sleep, I whipped off the covers, dressed quickly in my Guild Armor and bucked on my swords, then disappeared out the secret entrance. I glanced to the skies, which were only just beginning to lighten with dawn's breaking. Instead of pitch-blackness, I was surrounded by a cool, navy blue darkness. I felt the familiar tug towards the heavens, and glanced about, looking for a roof to sit on. I sighed, finding nothing suitable. _Guess the wall will have to do._

A few moments later, I was sitting atop the outer wall just near the Thieves Guild Mausoleum, courtesy of a conveniently located (though skinny) tree. I took stock of the constellations, and noted that the Tower was dominant tonight. _What help are you? _I asked it, all snark, as though a group of stars could even answer me in the first place. The sun was still hiding from Masser and Secunda, though the sky was lightening.

"Couldn't sleep either, eh?" called a voice from the ground behind me.

I twisted to look over my shoulder and found the one and only Vilkas standing there, his arms folded across his chest and a grin quirked across his normally stony features. _Shit. _"I have the future of three Guilds on my back, and there's an army marching on my town, fully ready to kill everyone I've ever cared about," I called back flatly. "What's your excuse?"

His grin turned sheepish. "I'm a werewolf."

"I win." I turned back to face the sunrise.

"Yeah, you do," came the disembodied voice from behind me. After a moment, it also added, "So are you going to come down here, or do I need to climb up there?"

I twisted back to see his face, but it was impassive. I snorted. "Like you could even get up here."

Something flashed in those silver-grey eyes. "Challenge accepted." He uncrossed his arms and took a few steps backwards. Then he broke out into a run, and upon reaching the wall, sprang into the air, catching the edge of the battlement with the tips of his fingers. He hauled himself up and over the lip of the masonry, setting into a spot next to me. He sat farther away than he used to, but closer than the casual male friend would.

I snorted and applauded slowly, shaking my head all the while. "I can't believe that actually worked."

Vilkas scrutinized my face a moment, then shrugged and offered, "Me neither."

I actually laughed at that, but the mirth quickly drained from my features. I sighed. "What do you want, Vilkas?"

"Several things, but at the moment? I need to talk to you."

I squared up to his gaze. Once upon a time, this had been cold and calculating when directed at me. These days, there was a warmth and open concern that most people would never see out of the man. "What's on your mind?"

"Two things." He held up two callused fingers. "One…" he trailed off, trying to come up with a way to say what came next. "I was wondering if you would do me the honor of being my Shield-Sister today."

My brow furrowed. "Didn't I talk to you about this?" He carefully shook his head no. "Ah, damn. It was _Brynjolf _I talked to, then."

He winced at the mention of the name. "Talked to him about what?"

I smiled. "Of course I'm fighting with you today, icebrain. We're Soul-Shields."

His craggy features lit up. "Then never mind the second." We sat in silence a moment, before he asked, "So do you dual-wield still? And cast spells once you start getting bored? And… Shout?"

I nodded. "Perfect." He had a knack for figuring out fighting styles. "And do you still use a greatsword and a significantly less amount of brains in a fight?"

"Perfect," he laughed, but then grew quiet. "What is it with you and roofs?"

"This isn't a roof," I countered.

He rolled his eyes. "You know what I meant."

I sighed, because of course I did. "I'm part dragon, and this is as close to the sky as I'll ever get." I gestured to the diminishing constellations. "Except when Odahviing let me borrow his back. That's one thing I…" I stopped myself.

"One thing you what?" Vilkas prodded gently.

_One thing I don't regret about the Sovngarde Incident. Maybe the only thing. _"Nothing. What do our scouting reports say?"

I had put Vilkas in charge of Thrynn and Rune's reconnaissance missions so that we got information that was actually useful. "Same as ever. Giant battalion, marching on quiet little Riften. Five, maybe six hundred men." He paused, something he was dying to say dancing on the tip of his tongue. In the end, his curiosity won out. "Why are the Stormcloaks marching on Riften, Morwyn?"

"You were there when we overheard…"

"Morwyn," Vilkas interrupted in a no-nonsense manner, "you know as well as I do that when a story doesn't make sense, there's a reason for it. And when it comes to you, there are more like _five."_

I chuckled blackly, then sighed. Might as well get this out in the open, too. "Because Vilkas, I am Ulfric Stormcloak's daughter."

The shock colored his features white. "_What? _How do you know?_"_

"Paarthurnax, the master of the Greybeards told me when I was called to the Throat of the World." I paused. "That wasn't the reason, but it came up in conversation. And Ulfric explained that my mother, Lady Acacia, seduced him to speed up negotiations," I said, doing my best to remain impassive. "I showed up nine months later."

Vilkas was shocked into silence. He finally managed to get out, "That's… that's… sweet Talos…!"

"I know," I agreed quietly, studying my bracers.

I was forced to look up when Vilkas squeezed my shoulder in solidarity. "I'm serious. That's an _awful _way to tell someone…"

"They're a bastard? I interrupted. "I know."

"I wasn't going to say that!" Vilkas exclaimed, his face flushing red at the unsaid accusation.

"But you were thinking it."

"Morwyn, for all I know, _I'm _a bastard. I'm hardly one to judge."

We receded into silence for a while, watching the sun slowly creep up over the horizon and paint the sky orange and pink and red. "I see why you wanted to come back here," Vilkas finally said.

"Hmm?"

"The Guild." He gestured behind us, at the mausoleum. "They're like a family, tight-knit and genuinely concerned for each other." He chuckled blackly. "Who would have expected it, from a company of thieves?"

"We're all we've got," I said quietly.

"You've got me," the Companion countered.

"True," I said, my heart breaking even as I spoke. "I've got you." I didn't let him dwell on it. "How are you holding up with the Blood, my friend?"

He shrugged. "About as well as can be expected. It's like I stepped backwards in time, it's just so similar…" He didn't mention the most important difference.

"I know how you feel," I murmured. "My temper came roaring back, just like that." I snapped my fingers.

He nodded. "You're doing a better job of keeping it under control, though."

"So are you." I half-smiled. "I mean, you haven't decapitated Brynjolf yet."

Vilkas cracked his knuckles. "I swear to Talos, if he does anything to hurt you…"

"He jailbroke me out of a Thalmor Embassy, Vilkas. And then offered to kill an elder dragon and Ulfric Stormcloak for me."

"Merciful Mara... and did he?"

"No, I would never ask him to…" I cut myself off, pressing the heel of my hand into my gut. All of a sudden, it was aching something fierce.

Instantly, his demeanor changed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I grimaced.

Vilkas' brow furrowed. "You smell like blood." I shot him a look, and the ears on his spirit wolf flattened in embarrassment. _"Oh."_

I just nodded stiffly.

"Will you be alright to fight as the wolf?" he asked, and his hands twitched at his sides, so wanting to reach out, to comfort me.

I shrugged. "I've done it before."

His ears flattened out again. "I'll just, ah, find Aela, then." He swung himself back over the ledge, landing with a _whump _on the ground below.

"Or my sister!" I called down to him.

"Or your sister!" He agreed as he disappeared back down into the Cistern.

_Wonderful. This just _had _to reappear this morning._

-)

"You're awful young to be getting back into the cycle," Avalon commented from her vantage point over the Alchemy table in the Cistern.

I was sitting on the table next to her, chattering back and forth about everything from the Beast Blood to Brynjolf. I took a long draught from the pain-killing concoction Sapphire often brewed for Vex and Tonilia. It was a cross between her tarlike coffee and Moon Tea. "I've been living with humans for a good long while. Maybe that has something to do with it?"

"It might. That's been known to happen," Avalon conceded. She rocked back to a hip to get a look at me. "I wonder if it has to do with your Nord blood?"

"That makes more sense. Though my body tends to take the Dunmer route…"

Avalon shrugged. "You're an anomaly, little sister. That's just all there is to it."

I laughed, nearly choking on whatever was in my mug. (I was trying not to think about it.) "You are not the first person to tell me that. In any event, what are you brewing?"

Avalon grinned and gestured to the cyan blue concoction sitting in the divot in the middle of the table. "Why, little sister, don't you recognize the Tears of Azura?"

The Tears of Azura was most potent paralytic poison in existence. It earned its name, however, because the poison had absolutely no effect on Dark Elves. It had a long history of finding itself in soups to poison non-Dunmeri dinner guests, or dripped on the sheets of a visiting noble. Or, the specialty of House Morwyn—worn as lip rouge.

I laughed. "You wouldn't happen to have made enough for two, would you?"

Avalon's smile was feral. "I may have… but you have to test it out."

Damn. I hated doing this. "Alright, alright…" I dipped a finger into the goo, smearing it across my lips. "Shall we do this the usual way?" That is, get into a fight and then _surprise!_

Avalon nodded. "And now, to procure a hapless victim."

I smirked as she shouted "OI!" into the Cistern. "ANYONE CARE TO BE A TEST SUBJECT?!"

I snorted. "Real subtle!"

"NO!" Most of the Cistern shouted back.

"Wait, isn't Avalon the Morwyn that's good with alchemy?" Niruin asked carefully. My family name was getting around, I noted.  
"I think so," Brynjolf said to him.

"This one's just a paralytic poison," Avalon offered. "Should wear off in an hour, maybe less. No harm will come to you." Under her breath, she added, "I think."

"Hell with it," the Bosmer said. "I'll help you out. What do you need me to do?"

"Just spar with me…" I began, but Avalon cut me off:

"For best results, don't use against elves," she said, and the light of recognition lit behind his eyes.

"Tears of Azura?" he asked, and we both nodded. Niruin burst out laughing. "By the Nine, this should be entertaining!"

"Vilkas, you help the elf." Rune nudged the hulking Nord from his vantage point across the room.

"Nuh-uh, bad idea," I said instantly.

"What, too scared to duel me anymore?" Vilkas quipped.

_Stay calm, stay calm. _"We all know who will win. But seriously, we need a test subject…"

Vilkas strode into the middle of the Cistern, to the dais that had become akin to a sparring circle over the past few days. "Come now Morwyn; I've never seen _you_ back out of a fight." He paused. "Unless years of sitting on your ass in Windhelm made you soft…"

I felt the fire light within me; trying to remain calm was becoming difficult. "Vilkas, this is a _bad _idea."

He shrugged. "So much for the valor of House Morwyn…"

The Cistern went deathly silent. "You did _not _just play the House card," I growled.

He smirked, knowing he'd trapped me. "I've never known you to be craven…"

In one smooth, furious movement, I drew both swords and stormed across the Cistern. Vilkas, having successfully goaded me into fighting him, drew his Skyforge steel greatsword and solidified his stance. The first clash of blades rang out into the silenced room, and suddenly we fell into our old dance.

I had seen him cleave men clean in half with the blade in his hands now, but I had long since perfected the art of using both my blades to deflect and parry such a giant weapon. I was twice as fast as he was, and used that to my advantage. I darted in and out of his guard, but he managed to catch every attack just in time. I couldn't help but smile; this was just as frustrating as old times.

The fight only lasted a few furious minutes before I found an opening. I caught his greatsword with both Dawnbreaker and my Ebony Sword of the Blaze, and sidestepped into his guard. I dropped one hand, and even as I still held the hilt of the ebony blade, yanked him forward by the edge of his breastplate and into a chaotic, irate kiss. _One… two… three. _I released him, shoving backwards to create space between us, then readied both swords again.

"What the hell was that!?" Vilkas barked, confused and understandably angry.

I held up three blue-grey fingers, using them to count down to one. And as he raised his greatsword to strike again, he froze in place. "The Tears of Azura," I announced to the shell-shocked room, "is the most potent paralytic poison in existence. It should wear off in an hour, by the way." With one powerful movement, I jerked the skyforged sword from his frozen grip and growled through my teeth, "And you of all people should know better than to piss me off, Vilkas."

I strode out of the room with my swords at my hips, and Vilkas' greatsword strapped across my back.

-)

"TIBERIA!"

My head jerked in the direction of my name. "AYE!"

Thrynn and Rune, both breathing heavily, each had a vice grip on the upper arm of two large burly Nords. One, brown-haired, steel-armored, and openly alarmed, the other blond-haired and -bearded, clad in a Stormcloak cuirass, and more relaxed. I knew these two. I knew them very well.

"Calder," I addressed the first, and the other "Ralof. What are you _doing_ here?"

"My Thane…" Calder spluttered. "There's been… there is… Ulfric…"

"Just shut up, Calder," I ordered.

He let out a relieved sigh. "Thank you, my Thane." Not one for words, my Housecarl from Windhelm.

"Ralof!" I barked, and the Ragged Flagon snapped to attention. "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here, in that uniform."

Both men were shocked. "You… you know?" Ralof asked, completely shocked.

"Aye." I nodded. "We've known for the past week." Carefully, I drew my swords from my belt, and leveled both at their throats. "And two soldiers in Ulfric Stomrlcoak's army aren't welcome here."

They both hung their heads, ashamed. "We're not Ulfric's men," Calder said quietly. "Never have been."

Sapphire—of all people!-came to their rescue. "You're deserters, then?" asked the blonde thief, folding her arms across her chest.

"The Ulfric Stormcloak I pledged to is _not _the one marching on Riften," Ralof said vehemently. He seemed to me like a faithful dog that had just lost its master. "The man no longer fights for the good of Skyrim—how could killing the Dragonborn be…?"

"So that's his goal," came a lilting voice from over by Delvin.

Ralof's gaze narrowed, then snapped back into place with a smile. "You're one of the ones I met outside Solitude, aren't you?"

"Perhaps," said Bryn, 'absentmindedly' laying a hand one of the war axes in his belt.

"Morwyn, you've got to believe me," Ralof said, turning back to me. "We serve a Stormcloak, aye. But not Ulfric."

Suddenly it all made sense. "You know." It wasn't a question.

"We know," they intoned.

"You're not a Stormcloak," Farkas called, scrutinizing me a moment. "More like a Storm_blade."_

I paused, whatever I had been about to say forgotten. "I like it."

"And you wear the Stormcrown of Talos," Calder hastened to add.

"_Is _that another one of your titles?" Vipir asked.

Ah, now I remember why having housecarls around was a pain in the ass. "Err, yes," I shifted uncomfortably on my feet. "But never mind that. Ralof, Calder." They both snapped to attention. "Why are you here?"

"We came to warn you," Ralof said carefully, "Ulfric's marching on Riften; he'll be here within the hour."

The entire Flagon stood in shock. "It's true," Thrynn supplied.

"And we fight with you, Tiberia," Calder said. "For I am sworn to carry your burdens, and Ralof's got a battle-bond with you that's thicker than any blood." I had survived Helgen with Ralof—Calder had a point.

I threw my hands up. "Our fates are with the gods, now. EVERYONE! GET INTO YOUR ARMOR AND ASSEMBLE IN THE CISTERN IN FIFTEEN! _MOVE,_ PEOPLE!" Shouting always got people's attention, and with that, the Guild snapped into twelve directions.

"Got enough weapons there, Morwyn?" Ralof joked as I disappeared into the Cistern to gear up for the battle.

"Hmmm?" I realized, I still had Vilkas' greatsword strapped to my back, on top of my normal dual swords and dagger in my boot. "This isn't mine." I gestured to the skyforged greatsword on my back.

"Whose is it then?" Calder asked, brow furrowed.

"Mine," came an accented voice whose spirit wolf had its tail between its legs. "The Harbinger's been trying to teach me a lesson in self-preservation."

I glanced up at Vilkas from under my eyebrows. "You still fail."

"I know." He didn't even _try _and deny it—who was this? "Can I have my sword back? We're going into war, here."

I shrugged, and unstrapped the thing from my back. "Take it. Freaking thing is worthless to me anyway. But don't bother getting into your armor—we're going in as wolves."

The grin that split his face was downright feral. "I'll tell the rest of the pack."

I nodded, called, "_And Arnbjorn!" _and then realized there was still someone I needed to talk to this morning. I turned to Ralof and Calder and said, "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me…" I paused. "And Ralof, find something that isn't Stormcloak Blue, would you?"

In the end, I found a shirtless Brynjolf gearing up for war with woad in the otherwise deserted practice room. "Bryn," I called, and his head snapped up at the sound of his nickname. When he saw it was only me, however, he grinned.

"Well if it isn't Madam Dovahkiin," he greeted with a smile and a nod in my direction. "How are you holding up, with the Beast Blood and all?"

"Fine, but that isn't what I need to talk to you about."

"Oh?" His eyebrow quirked up, even as he filled in the lines across his face with blue woad. "What's this?"

I sighed. "Look, about what Vilkas said during Scar or Story last night…"

"Just stop," he interrupted gently. "There's nothing to apologize for, and don't you dare start getting soft on me now."

I shot him an oh-come-now look. "I find it hard to believe you're not even slightly angry."

Brynjolf let out a tired sigh, and paused with the warpaint. "I'm not angry, I just…" He paused, brow furrowing. "What am I supposed to do, Ty? Be angry that you courted someone before me? Or that you, who was willing to die for a country of people that spit on you when you pass, needed something to make you strong? Honestly Ty, if the Greybeards told _me _I had to kill Alduin in Sovngarde, I probably would have done something similar. So no, I'm not mad. I'm not _happy, _per se, but so long as I have your heart now…" He shrugged. "What does the past matter?"

I let out a relieved sigh, offering silent thanks to whichever Daedra was listening. "Thank you."

He smiled tiredly. "I'd hug you, but I'm blue."

I snorted, and shrugged. "So am I."

Brynjolf let out a surprised laugh, and held his woad-covered fingers next to the exposed skin on my arm. "Look at that; we're the same color now."

I couldn't help but smile at the fierce, woad-covered warrior before me. "So we are."


	52. The Bear, the Wolf, and the Dovah

**Hey all you readers, reviewers, and lurkers :) and I can't help but feel like the Joker whenever I put out a chapter like this:**

"**And here… we… go."**

**-)**

I stood on a hill, overlooking a clearing in the Autumnal Forest near Riften, dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, no boots. It had felt twelve kinds of strange not to strap my armor on and lash my swords into place, but I was going into battle as a werewolf first. No need to ruin perfectly good armor, or worse, distract the men. A chilly winter's wind blew past us, making the unbraided parts of my hair dance.

As I glanced about the group of assembled warriors, I could help but realize how many freakin' couples there were. I remembered snatches of the events in the Cistern from just half an hour ago:

Vex, sanding stock still, entirely in her legionnaire's armor except for the helmet, which she held in her hands and was scrutinizing with an unreadable look.

Delvin Mallory, terrifying in his battle robes, gently taking the helmet from her hands and kissing her something fierce

Claudius, and Lydia, checking over each other's armor with the calculated precision of soldiers.

Aela, packing her armor into a knapsack and checking over her arrow inventory.

Farkas, whose face was set in a hard line, stoically standing over her shoulder.

Thrynn, looking uneasy in scaled armor once more, and yet it suited him.

Sapphire, grim and hard-edged in her Guild armor, sitting cross-legged on Thrynn's cot, painting his face as he did hers.

And then there was Brynjolf, fierce and battle-ready in his clan tartan and chain mail, and myself, dressed in simple clothes that could be ripped to shreds without a second thought. Both of us, I couldn't help but note, were half blue now.

"Good day for a battle," Farkas commented from over my left shoulder, and I immediately glanced up to the sky.

I smiled through the weak winter sunlight. "Aye, and an even better day to win one."

Aela was grinning. "As always, Shield-Sister."

I had gone over everyone's battle positions back in the Cistern, so the entirety of our ragtag army was ready to go. There was just one more loose end to tie up. "No one panic!" I shouted as I headed, alone, down the hill.

I stood now in this open clearing and, throwing back my head, shouted, _"OD-AH-VIING!"_

He never kept me waiting long.

A dark shadow descended over us, accompanied by the terrifying roar of a _dovah. _Several of my comrades drew their weapons, but the Companions urged them to keep them sheathed. A hulking, red-scaled beast landed just before me, its gleaming red eyes boring down on me. "_DO-VAH-KIIN!" _he greeted. "_Drem, yol, lok."_

"_Drem, yol, lok." _I couldn't help but smile. "It is good to see you again, _fahdon." Friend._

Odahviing graced Nirn with the closet thing he could give to a smile. "And you, _fahdon. _What need have you of me?"

I used bits of Draconic to be sure he understood. "There is to be a _grah_, here." _Battle._ "Perhaps the killing of a _vojun." False king. _"Care to join me?' After all, one never ordered a dragon about. One could merely ask.

But I knew Odahviing, and therefore knew his answer. "_Geh, Dovahkiin! _I shall fly with you!" He paused. "Which _joorre_ do we fight?"

"They'll be coming from over there..." I pointed across the clearing. "…And they'll all be clad in blue. _Krif med dovah._" _Fight like a Dragon._

"I will." Odahviing nodded his great scaly head. "And you, _mal_ _briinah. _Where do you fight?" Little sister, he called me.

"Don't look for me," I warned him. "I will be a _grohiik." Wolf._

Odahviing chuckled, a noise most found alien when coming from a _dovah. _Me? I was used to it. "Then take them by _gol_, and I by _lok!"_ He rose into the air again.

"_Hon_ _fah_ _faal Thu'um!" _I shouted up to him. _Listen for my shout!_

Odahviing made no indication that he'd heard, but I knew there was no way he'd missed it. I pounded back up the hills to re-insert myself into the Circle, but found myself waylaid by the Guild.

"What the hell was that!?" Mercer barked. He was wearing some sort of skintight, black armor, emblazoned with what I _thought_ was Nocturnal's sigil (a Nightingale, wings outstretched, with the moon just over its head) and a hooded cape across his shoulders. But Mercer wasn't a devout of the Daedra. As a matter of fact, I was pretty sure he wasn't a devout of _anything._ I wondered what, then, could possibly be emblazoned across his chest.

"That," answered a voice for me, "was the great dragon Odahviing."

I nodded gratefully to Farkas. "He's on our side Mercer; don't you worry. He's actually agreed to kill some Stormcloaks for us."

Brynjolf had an eyebrow cocked, which admittedly looked hilarious underneath the woad. It was Vex, however, who said, "And you failed to mention you can summon a dragon because…?"

"I summoned nothing," I replied swiftly. "I merely asked a favor of a friend."

In the end, Ulfric didn't keep us waiting long, either.

I stood on the crest of the hill with the Wolf Twins and Aela, all four of us battle-painted and outwardly nervous, in our own ways. I was bouncing on my heels; Aela kept testing the air with her nose; Vilkas was tapping the flat of one bracer with the other hand; and Farkas didn't say a damn word. Our gear was stashed with the archers—Cynric and Niruin—and Delvin, since we were to take Uflric's boys by surprise in our beast forms. It was as a good a plan as any, given our sorely outnumbered state. (Some of the city guard, and a few random citizens had joined the fight as well, but they were hardly Companions.)

And then, just out of the trees, came a rider with a white flag. Odahviing shouted to me in Draconic that it was a man who smelled like a _kodaav, _a bear. _Galmar. Has to be. _Behind him came row upon row of Stormcloak soldiers, their order seeming more like that of the legion than the rabble I'd commanded. "Let me do the talking," I murmured to Mercer, who was standing behind me with the rest of the assembled warriors. "There is no arguing with Stormcloak or his men. The most we can hope to do is unsettle them."

"You are good at that," Mercer agreed, handing over power to me for one last round.

I strode out to meet Galmar's white flag with Odahviing swooping overhead. "Your resolve is admirable, Dragonborn," Galmar commended as he dismounted, immune to Odahviing after so many years serving the cause alongside me. "But foolish. Surrender now, my friend, before you're all destroyed."

"Sovngarde will take me first," I growled.

Galmar sighed. "You're being suicidal, Morwyn."

"And you fight for a false king," I snapped.

"You swore an oath…!"

"I swore an oath to protect the people of Skyrim! Not a _vojun!"_

Galmar blinked in confusion. "A what?"

I shook my head, unsure of why Draconic was worming its way into my speech. _You are becoming more like the dov than you know. _"A false king. Anyway, you can turn right back around and tell Ulfric that I have no intention of letting Riften fall."

Galmar just sighed, sounding so very old and careworn. "Just as stubborn as your father…"

"Never refer to him as such again," I said, my voice in its deadly alto. "If you weren't under the white flag…"

Galmar held up both his hands, palms out. "Peace, Dragonborn. I go now. I go…" He carefully remounted his horse. He sighed then, suddenly seeming very old. "I am sorry my friend, but you leave us no choice."

The wind kicked up again, and Odahviing howled in warning from somewhere in the skies: "_Strun los meyz!" A storm is coming!_

"You always have a choice," I replied quietly as Galmar rode away. I noted with black satisfaction that he shivered and shook his head—the way Galmar Stone-Fist always did when things were spiraling out of his control.

_ You mess with the dragon, you get the horns._

I strode up the side of the hill to the questioning gazes of my friends and allies, and addressed the men as I always did: "TO WAR, GENTLEMEN"

The Companions howled in response, and I knew whipping the Guild, some assorted Assassins, and the city guard into a fighting furor would take some effort. Vilkas and Farkas were both trying to stifle grins—they knew what came next.

"WHO LIES IN WAIT!?" I roared over the assembled mass.

The Companions shouted in reply: "ULFIC STORMCLOAK!"

They set the tone. "AND WHO DO YOU FIGHT FOR?"

_"DRAGONBORN!"_

As had been done many times in years past, one of the Wolf Twins hoisted me up onto his shoulders so I could address the crowd (shortness… not the ally of an awe-inspiring warrior). This time however, unlike years past, it was Farkas whose shoulders I addressed my men from. "My friends, comrades of the Rift!" I called, my voice reverberating over the now-silent assembly. "Ulfric Stormcloak sends his dogs to do his work!" Murmurs of resentment arose from the Nords. "He thinks us weak, thinks we can't hold our line. What say you?!"

Avalon's shrill soprano called: "He's wrong!"

"He thinks us craven, thinks he can control the Dragonborn. What say _you!?"_

Delvin caught on: "He's wrong!"

"He believes he can easily take the Rift. But this land is _ours! _Will you take this _insult _lying down?! Will you be slaves to another false king!?" The roar of negation was growing ever louder.

"Will you watch your brothers die in civil war? Your children grow up parentless?! I didn't come this far to lose!" The roar from the Companions was becoming indistinguishable from that of everyone else. "I did not kill Alduin to see Skyrim fall to another _vojun! _I did not risk my life to live on my knees under a _tyrant! Zu'u Dovahkiin!" I am the Dragonborn!_ "_And_ _I will not be silenced!_

"They will taste of the Thu'um and weep, and Red Mountain will sing with their blood! I will not be silent—_we will not be silenced. _And as of this moment on, we are brothers-in-arms! It matters not what faction you come from, be it Brotherhood, Guild, Companions, or Civilian! We are all brothers in battle now." Another roar, this time from the entirety of the army.

"So tell me now," I roared over them, "who do you fight for?! Because it isn't me! You fight for _Skyrim, _for her people, for your lives, for your _freedom!"_

Farkas, sensing the end was near, dropped to a crouch so that I could extricate myself from his shoulders. As my feet hit ground, Vilkas began the unofficial battle cry of the Companions: "May Talos guide you!"

"May Stendarr protect you," Farkas added as the four of us began to make our way to the crest of the hill.

"Hircine lead you," Aela added, looking like some fierce primordial war spirit in her battle paint and studded armor.

With a wicked grin, I faced my Guildsiblings, Shield-Siblings, and Brothers-in-Arms. "And Sheogorath predict you!"

And with that, I whirled on heel to face the oncoming army and began to run down the hill. My spirit wolf began to claw its way out of the corner of my soul it usually stayed locked in, and by the time I smashed into the first of Ulfric's soldiers, I was all wolf.


	53. Riding the Storm Out

**Hey all you readers, lurkers, and reviewers! :) Have some ass-kicking :3**

**And you non-PM folk:**

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**Onward!**

**-)**

I smashed into the ranks of Ulfric's men in full-on bestial form, and by Molag Bal's bloody mace, did it feel _good. _There was just nothing like a clash of the titans to get things rolling again. My claws eviscerated soldier after soldier, my powerful jaws snapping neck after neck. And yet they just kept coming.

Their lines were breaking, though; the men were terrified of the wolves. There were five of us—Aela's russet brown, my mahogany, Farkas and Vilkas' burnt umber, and Arnbjorn's platinum blond. The pack more or less brought the outlander into our fold, at least for the remainder of our time as wolves.

One thing that hadn't changed about my relationship with Vilkas was our battle-bond. Even (or perhaps especially) as wolves, our styles were perfect, harmonious savagery. I snapped forward as he held back. He lashed out while I guarded our flanks. I let out a blood-chilling howl as he smashed into our shell-shocked assailants. He loosed a mighty, guttural roar, and I would snap the neck of anyone who came near. Perfect, chaotic harmony.

Our men hadn't known what to expect of the Pack, not really. They knew how wolves were, they knew how _we _were, but that didn't mean they were really prepared to fight alongside werewolves. We were vicious as _dovah, _powerful as beasts, terrifying as Daedra, and intelligent as men. Not to mention, they'd never seen any of us in our beast forms and probably couldn't even tell who was who. But they managed well enough, and there was very little initial shock. Not like what came from Ulfric's men.

Their lines were holding better now, though still bowing and breaking under the Circle's onslaught. Farkas and Aela were just as terrifying a team as Vilkas and I—perhaps even more so since they could practically read each other's minds by this point in their marriage. Farkas would rush in headlong, taking the brunt of any counterattacks, while Aela would pick off any and all survivors. She would draw prey out of hiding, and he would decimate it. Perfect, chaotic harmony.

Vilkas and I kept up a more vicious onslaught. The old Companions adage thrummed through my half-lupine brain: _Anything that moves is a target. Anything that doesn't move is dead. _We'd always been the more vengeful warriors in the company anyway, though that had gotten us into trouble on more than one occasion. (And especially when it came to each other.)

So we snapped necks, eviscerated men with razor-sharp claws. We slammed headfirst into knots of soldiers, cracked bones between our teeth, rammed into shield-bearers with reckless abandon. We scattered men under our paws, under our howling. We impaled soldiers by means of our claws, twisted heads and limbs clean off.

And still, they kept coming.

The day wore on, the sun rising higher and higher in the sky until it reached its zenith. The battle too wore on, and after the initial shock of the werewolves wore off, the Stormcloaks dug their heels in and began fighting as soldiers instead of a rabble. We wolves were beginning to tire at a rate no amount of feeding could sate.

All around us, the Guilds were holding their own—every last one of them. At one point, I saw Njada and Athis standing back-to-back, each with a sword and shield in hand, lashing out and taking names as a duo, their usual petty arguments forgotten. Across the way, Vex was a blinding flash of silvery steel, decapitating her enemies and hacking and slashing at any one of them who came too near, bashing heads in with her Imperial shield, never hesitating. She was as steadfast and strong as if she'd left the legion yesterday.

Standing at the crest of the hill to our backs stood Cynric, Niruin and Tonilia, firing volley after volley of every sort of arrow they'd had time to make, filch, or buy. It was a testament to their marksmanship that none hit any ally. Down the hill a little ways was Ingun Black-Briar, dressed in borrowed Guild armor and passing out potions and poisons as needed. I had been amazed that Maven had allowed an heir into the fray, then had been _more _impressed that the Lady Black-Briar had done no such thing. Ingun had come to Brynjolf of her own volition, and asked how she could be of use to the war effort. Mercer had inducted her on the spot.

And speaking of the Clansman, he and Delvin were steadily cleaving through Ulfric's men with axe and spell. Gods, watching Delvin work was like being a child on New Life again. The spells he could cast that he just came up with on the spot made me feel downright guilty for holding the title of Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold. Brynjolf was little more than an indigo blur, accompanied by twin red-and-black blurs that cut through sinew and bone like Molag Bal himself. I remembered then, in my half-aware state, that his axes were Daedric and that he had Mehrunes' Razor in his boot. So many Daedra surrounding a man who believed in the Divines—the opposite of me, the Daedra worshipper with the Divines' blessing.

Speaking of Daedra worshippers, Avalon and Cicero were having a grand old time surrounded by so much death. Cicero was happily stabbing and casting destruction spells, completely in his element. Funny, how perfectly sane he seemed with a battle-sneer on his face and an ebony dagger in his hand. Avalon had a long sword in one hand and ice spikes in the other, and was dancing through and around clusters of Stormcloaks, taunting them as though she had not a care in the world.

Still, they kept coming.

Mercer Frey, his Dwarven sword in one hand, a steel dagger in the other, was a swordsman from hell. His style, so brutal, so intense, reflected the man in spades. Nothing but his eyes and his fingertips was visible in the perplexing armor he wore, and at times he seemed to flat-out disappear—only to reappear moments later with his sword in someone's ribcage, or his dagger through their throat. Dangerous was a word people often used to describe Mercer Frey, right next to deadly, decisive, and deranged.

Fire and frost rained from the skies, courtesy of Odahviing. He was careful to swoop down and tear limb-from-limb only men and women who were dressed in Stormcloak blue. His prediction of the coming storm had also been proven accurate—by early afternoon, it had begun to rain in earnest. We werewolves had no trouble keeping up with the fight in the mud, but soon the humans were having all sorts of issues. Heavy armor and falling in mud tended to be a deadly combination.

Thrynn was working side by side with Veezara, and the two of them had everything worked out to a system. Veezara would rush forward, catching the enemy unawares, and Thrynn would come flying in right behind the Shadowscale and send the soldier to Oblivion. Stranger yet was watching Mjoll the Lioness cleave through Stormcloak after Stormcloak, and still pause long enough to jerk Rune to his feet after he'd fallen.

Etienne was blasting holes in their lines with bursts of elemental magic, in varying degrees of power. Some men he merely had to set on fire; others required that he blast a knot of them into Oblivion with an ice storm. Vekel though, I had never seen doing much of anything other than tending bar. Seeing him decked out in steel armor and wielding a glass warhammer crushing breastplate and skull alike was one of the most bizarre things of the whole battle. Not good or bad, just bizarre.

And _still_, they kept coming.

The first of us to fall was a young Nord of the city guard. I'd seen him around the Bee and Barb on multiple occasions, drinking and breaking bread with his buddies. After that, we seemed to snap back to attention, and keep at it. The next of us to fall was Shadr, the Redguard who worked at the stables. He was cut down, even as he raised his own axe to strike the man before him. Classic case of why you should always fight with a Shield-Brother.

Speaking of which, Vilkas' warning howl sounded from somewhere behind me, and I immediately whirled to face whatever stood behind me. As it turned out, a rather large Breton was coming at me with the sort of Greatsword that would have no trouble lopping off a werewolf's head. Instinctively, I rushed him, slamming my thick skull into his unprotected gut (Stormcloak cuirasses, not the strongest of armors). He was sent flying back with a _whoosh, _and Vilkas descended upon him, eyes blazing, claws glinting in the late afternoon sun.

_Late afternoon... _we'd been werewolves for the better part of the day, and I was starting to feel it. My mind was losing itself to the wolf. I was losing control of language, of my thoughts, of myself. Sooner or later (and probably sooner) I was going to start attacking everything in sight when I fully lost myself to the wolf. _Time to make the change._

I loosed a warning howl, and instantly, the Circle snapped to attention. I tore off the battlefield, back up the hill to where Cynric and Niruin were thinning out Stormcloaks with calculated precision. Tonilia had recently re-joined them, having brought a new supply of arrows from the city. I tore past all three of them and just over the crest of the hill, to the rock formation our gear was hiding behind. I had been shrinking, reforming, all the way up the side of the hill. Farkas, Vilkas, and Aela were right behind me.

I reached the rocks just as my bones began bubbling over, breaking, reforming from the wolf into the human. The force brought me to my knees, the pain excruciating and yet over in less time than it took to walk from one end of Riften to the other. The other three were experiencing the same thing, and we were suddenly all very much human (well, elf in my case) and naked as our name days. But any thoughts of embarrassment, lost modesty, or awkwardness were driven far from our minds because of one simple fact:

We were standing completely exposed on the edge of a battlefield.

"Keep moving!" Cynric shouted, the first real human speech I'd heard all day. "We've got company!"

With a quick ease of one well-accustomed to doing so, each member of the Circle donned his or her armor in moments. On went the underthings, then breastplate, kilt, boots, and bracers. It felt good to be in wolf armor again, all grey-gold steel and fur-lined padding. I loved my Guild Armor for everyday wear, but if I was going into battle, I needed heavy armor. The simple leather favored by thieves just left me too exposed.

Farkas wore his standard steel armor, and his eerie calm in the heat of battle set his face into a stony plane. Aela wore her Ancient Nord armor, and would taunt from afar as she joined Cynric, Tonilia, and Niruin on the hill. Isembard was to be Farkas' Shield-Brother, just as soon as he got the signal.

I was unsteady on my feet as I buckled my swords over my hips. My balance was off, and my head was swimming, but that was a fairly common side effect of staying in the beast form for extended amounts of time. There was a savage, primal joy of the hunt, true, but to stay in Hircine's realm was to lose yourself. Civilized werewolves held a special sympathy for feral ones. Or at least, Farkas and I did. Vilkas and Aela… well, I'm sure you all know their version of mercy.

"Everyone alright?" I asked, my tongue thick and heavy as though I'd been drinking all day, instead of killing Stormcloaks.

The order of the day was a "Yeah, I'll be fine." of varying degrees from the rest of the Circle, and so the four of us pounded back up the hill, just in time to clash with a few Stormcloaks who'd been audacious enough to attempt to get at our archers.

"_YOL!" _I barked, setting the one closest to me on fire, just as the Twins ran the other two through with their greatswords.

I was alarmed that it had taken so much effort to call on the Thu'um, much less articulate words. Vilkas, reading me accurately as usual, asked, "Having problems?"

"None I don't know how to fix," I slurred. And with that, I charged down the hill to smash into the fray for the second time that day. Only this time, I was singing at the top of my lungs:

"_DOVAHKIIN! DOVAHKIIN! NAAL EK ZIN LOS VAHRIIN…!"_

There was truly no better way to announce the Dragonborn had arrived on the scene like that song, but that wasn't why I was singing it. I needed something that would bring the Thu'um back to the forefront of my mind, and subjugate the beast. Nothing like the song that reminded you of your civic duty, eh?_ To keep evil forever at bay._

By the time he joined me in on the field, Vilkas had joined in singing:

"_WAH DEIN, VOKUL, MAHFAERAAK AHST VAAL!"_

Soon most of the ragtag army that had been sleeping in the Cistern was singing along, and I think that was almost _more_ terrifying than the werewolves had been (well, Arnbjorn was still going at it, but he was a lost cause). Uniting under one banner gives people something to fight for that was greater than themselves. It gives them a purpose, a sense of honor, duty, and pride.

And that's about when they _stopped _coming.

Vilkas and I cut our way through soldier after soldier, too stubborn to die. Even when he took an arrow to the shoulder and I got stabbed in the hip, we refused to fall. I augmented our blades with Thu'um, and we held our line. We'd gotten pretty beat-up as wolves, and our human bodies were starting to show it. Our swings were getting slower, our battle cries quieter. And if _our _ferocity was waning, I shuddered to think about what was happening to everyone else.

As we neared twilight and the rain let up, my Soul-Shield and I found ourselves fighting alongside Delvin and Brynjolf. "How many more of these you think 'e's got?" Delvin asked as he sucked down yet another magicka potion. His mouth was turning blue, after all the ones he'd drunk today.

"My hope is not many," I replied, slightly breathless as I hacked off someone else's head.

"Aye!" agreed the Clansman and the Wolf.

And that's when I felt the concussive blast of the Unrelenting Force shout knock me off my feet.

Luckily, I slammed into a rather sturdy Nord nearby and was able to keep my footing. "Ulfric," I growled through my teeth as Vilkas set me upright again.

"In the flesh," mocked the Jarl of Windhelm, breathing heavily from his Shout. "You, dear Dragonborn, are one _hell_ of a thorn in my side."

"It's what I do best," I replied. "_FUS RO DAH!"_

Ulfric was not so lucky, as my shout sent him crashing backwards into the underbrush. "You three!" I called to my current Shield-Siblings. "Look after each other!"

"And where are you going!?" Vilkas called after me as I broke out into a run.

"I've got a bear to skin!" I shouted over my shoulder.

I followed the trail of (admittedly impressive) curses deep into the Autumnal Forest. I was hardly stealthy in my heavy Wolf armor, but he still seemed surrpirsed to see me. So surprised that he barked, "_YOL!"_

I easily sidestepped the fire, barking back, "_FO KRAH DIIN!" _Ice shot from my throat, catching Ulfric squarely in the chest.

Unfortunately for me, he's a Nord and they can practically run barefoot in the snow in the middle of Morning Star (ever done that? it's freakin' painful!). So the frost did little to stop him from crashing into my swords with his trusty steel war axe. "What is your _problem?"_ I grunted over our blades.

"You!" he snarled back, disentangling and attempting to decapitate me from another angle.

I stopped the blade and feinted to the left. "I caught that!" Then attacked to the right. "The question is why?"

He caught it, again. "You're a traitor, a liar, a thief, and a disgusting half-breed. You deserve nothing less than death."

_Funny, _I thought as I rolled around his blade and snapped to my feet behind him. _That sounds exactly like Neva… _And then it hit me.

"_MERCIFUL TALOS, YOU'RE WORKING WITH THE THALMOR!?"_

Ulfric's eyes widened, realizing he'd said too much. "_FUS!"_

I crossed my arms in front of me, the swords blocking the brunt of the concussive blast. What reached me did little more than knock my braids about. "Holy Azura, it all makes so much sense! My incarceration, Cyrano's sudden promotion in the country directly south, why you never sent me to do any _real _damage…" I shook my head, absurd laughter bubbling up from my core. "You bloody traitor…"

"They just want you," he growled, slamming into my guard again. "And they'll leave Skyrim alone."

"For now," I quipped, returning the attack with my characteristic viciousness.

"I'll cross that bridge when I get to it." He suddenly disengaged and took off running.

I followed, sprinting through the trees. I ducked under hanging branches, wove around underbrush, and almost did realize I'd reached a cliff until I nearly went crashing headlong over it. Ulfric stood a few feet to my left, on the edge as well. "Is this how it ends, daughter? Or how it begins?"

"It ends with you dead, _father." _I practically spat the word. "_Zu'u Dovahkiin, ahrk zu fen ni kos nahlot!" _I could feel something rising within me—something hot-blooded and angry. Something beautiful and savage, alien and immortal.

Ulfric snorted, as though amused. "I think not, little Stormcloak." and he stepped sideways off the cliff.

I rushed to the spot where he'd been, and upon looking over the ledge, found that it dropped off to a river below. No guarantee the fall or the rapids would kill him, but I was too exhausted to give chase. Growling in frustration, I pounded on the earth with one metal-encased hand, then stalked back through the trees to the battlefield.

It seemed the fighting was over, at least for now. The last remnants of Ulfric's battalion had surrendered; the small group of survivors clustered together a few paces away. My men were wandering about the battlefield, putting an end to a few less fortunate souls with kindly blades. Odahviing swooped overhead, unwilling to leave the fight until he knew I was alright. Vex sidled up alongside me just as I reached the remaining Stormcloaks. "What do you want to do with the survivors, sir?" she asked, sounding very much like a Legate. I glanced to her, realizing she'd sustained a nasty gash just above her eyebrow, and her helmet had been lost somewhere along the line.

"There are no survivors," I said in a voice that sounded like mine, but wasn't. "_YOL TOOR SHUL!"_ They didn't even have the time to scream.

I left Vex there, continuing through the mess of the field. It wasn't too much longer until I came across a weary Mercer. His armor had been torn right around his floating ribs, and it was crusted over with a dark red. "What's the casualty count?" I asked, still with this alien voice.

Mercer's brow furrowed, but he answered, "Less than it should have been, given our numbers. Somewhere around twenty, maybe thirty. I think it was the wolves that did them in."

"Anyone important?" I asked. This voice… it _rasped. _It _growled. _It didn't _speak._

Mercer shrugged. "Not terribly. Etienne, Shadr, Brand-Shei, Torvar…"

The last two names socked me in the gut, and I heard no more. "Who was his Shield-Sibling?" I barked.

Mercer shrugged. "I think it was the little Imperial girl—Ria, maybe? Nia?"

I filed that away for future reference. "And Brand-Shei… how'd he even…?"

"I don't know, Guildsister," Mercer cut in, world-weary and halfway to apologetic. "I just don't know."

I could feel an alien rage bubbling up from my very core, the place where the Thu'um and the Beast Form came from. "Tiberia!" someone called.

I whipped my head around to find Brynjolf, Vilkas, and Delvin making their way over to where I stood. "What happened to Ulfric?" the voice, Delvin's, elaborated.

I growled in annoyance. "I lost him in a river."

"Damn," Vilkas cursed, then his eyes narrowed, and snapped open just as quickly. "Morwyn… everything alright?" He gingerly laid a hand on my arm.

I yanked it out of his grasp. "How dare you lay a hand on a _dovah!"_

Vilkas' next, elegant statement summed up everyone's thoughts: "_Shit."_

"Tiberia…?" Brynjolf's voice held a warning cadence. There was something unnerving in his eyes, not quite fear, not quite horror. Consternation, maybe?

"Snap out of it, Morwyn," Vilkas warned. The sting of a slap accompanied his words.

"How _dare _you!" I barked, my hand whipping up and across his face to return fire.

Something like that should have at least, embarrassed him, and at most, bruised him. Something like that should _not _have sent him flying like I'd barked Unrelenting Force. What was happening to me?

I didn't have time to dwell on it. "Tiberia!" Vipir's voice. "What should be done with the bodies?"

I turned to face the pickpocket as Vilkas, a few yards away, picked up himself up off the ground. "Have we collected our dead?" I asked pointedly.

"Aye." Vipir nodded. He was cradling one arm that was probably broken. "The priests of Mara and Arkay came and collected them earlier; they're all on the way back to Riften."

"Legate!" I called to Vex, who had come over to see what all the fuss was about when Vilkas had been sent flying.

She was clearly wary. "Yes, sir?"

"Tell me, what is the official Imperial policy on dealing with the bodies left over from battle?"

Vex shifted uncomfortably on her feet. "Cremation, sir."

I whirled back to face Vipir. "Then burn them," I growled to the appalled Nord. "Set the world on fire, until nothing remains but _ashes."_

As I strode from the battlefield, my head held high, I heard Odahviing shriek the words for fire breath behind me. The rain had stopped, at least for now, and I could feel the heat from the sudden flames as they engulfed anything that would burn. He loosed one more roar into the atmosphere as he began to journey home.

And I did not look back.


	54. Fire of Mercy

**Hey all you readers, lurkers, and reviewers :) I'm just gonna set this right here…**

**And the non PM crew:**

**Guest: Haha, thank you so much :) I'm so glad you enjoy my work.**

**Fallen Maiar: she is indeed. And thank you :)**

**Kazu: It is **_**never **_**that easy. Come on now. :) and I'm a Stormcloak too, fyi**

**Jem1912: don't be so sure of that.**

**Aledis: Awesome, thank you! Take your time :) and glad you enjoy.**

**And, onward!**

**-)**

I sat in the Cistern that night on the edge of my bed, my heels firmly planted on the ground, my elbows resting on my knees, my head in my hands. The rest of our hodgepodge army was celebrating, drinking themselves into Oblivion out of the sheer relief to have remained entirely intact. The Bee and Barb was full of revelers—they weren't even in the Ragged Flagon. I was as alone as I'd ever been here in the Cistern.

"Sweet Meridia, have mercy," I murmured to no one. "Lord Sheogorath, Lady Azura, have mercy on this cursed one… Shit, Lady _Mara_, have mercy."

What had I done? Murdered people in cold blood, that's what. And I'm not talking about open combat—I'm talking about the survivors. And _then_ I'd ordered the biggest mass grave in Skyrim, and Odahviing—right hand man to the most vicious dragons to ever disgrace the face of Tamriel—had been happy to oblige. What was happening to me? This wasn't me.

Or was it?

This alien, white-hot rage… was that from me, the Beast Blood, or the Dovahsos? I'd always had a temper, but it wasn't usually so short. Vilkas had always blamed the Blood—after all, he had the same problem. Paarthurnax would tell me it was the Dovahsos making me act out. But I always had this niggling feeling that it was me; that it had nothing to do with any of the supernatural forces singing in my blood, in my very soul. What if Tiberia Morwyn was the monster?

"What are you doing moping around down here, lass? The only reason we won today is you."

My head snapped up in the direction of the accent, though I was pretty sure I knew who it was. I was _not_, however, expecting to find Vilkas with him. "Don't much feel like celebrating," I replied, putting my head back in my hands.

"Hey now," came the other accent, and its owner cupped my chin, forcing me to look up at the both of them. "I know that stance. It never heralds anything good."

"Seriously?" I said, swatting Vilkas' hand away. "The two of _you _are ganging up on me? You hate each other."

"There are more important things than that right now," Brynjolf assured me, claiming the spot to my right.

"Like Avalon not murdering us," Vilkas added, dropping into a crouch to look me in the eyes.

I snorted at that—Avalon _would _threaten the two of them like that—but it quickly changed to an expression of shock when I finally saw, in the Cistern's dim lighting, that Vilkas had a massive, bluish-purple bruise crawling up the side of his face. "Holy Azura, I did that, didn't I?" I gestured weakly to his face.

Vilkas nodded, but it was accompanied by a shrug. "It isn't the first time you've flung me across a room, Morwyn, and it _certainly _won't be the last your _dovah _gets the better of you…"

That shocked me even more than the bruise. "This… this has happened _before?"_

Vilkas' eyes flickered to Brynjolf, silently asking something. Bryn must have nodded, because the wolf continued, "Aye, a few. Usually when you're overly-emotional. Like when Kodlak died, and we attacked the Silver Hand… You remember that, don't you?"

"Aye, but I don't remember ordering a full battalion_ burned!"_

"So that's what this is about," Brynjolf muttered, his hand making warm circles across my back.

My gaze jumped from Nord to Nord, but Talos only knows what I was looking for. "I don't even know who was issuing those orders," I whispered, heavy under the weight of my own cruelty. "It was me, but it _wasn't _me…" I glanced to Vilkas. "Like when I take the Blood."

"No wonder you got rid of it in the first place," Brynjolf commented.

Both Vilkas and I nodded at that. "But Vilkas… it hasn't ever been this bad." Then, a terrifying thought: "Has it?"

He shook his head readily enough. "No, this was…" he paused, trying to find a delicate way to put it.

"Out with it, Jergenson," I ordered, sounding very much like the Harbinger.

He smiled weakly. "This was something else, my friend. Something…" He glanced to Brynjolf, clearly looking for help.

"Something more akin to Odahviing, or…" Brynjolf paused, drew in a breath, and finished, "…Alduin."

I knew what they meant. "The dragons of legendary cruelty…" I let out a breath. "If you're trying to call me cruel, just do it."

Brynjolf sighed himself. "That was pretty ruthless."

"Aye," agreed Vilkas, almost apologetically. "Not the Morwyn we all know and love."

I had to say it. "What if that _was _me?"

"It wasn't," both men said at once.

"Your eyes," Vilkas elaborated. "You get like that and…"

"And it's like staring down a dragon," Brynjolf finished when Vilkas dropped off.

The both of them were wary of me; I could sense it in their movements. Although they were trying to comfort me, it seemed more like they were testing to see if the old Tiberia was back and were terrified that the new one was permanent. I hated to see them like that. "That isn't what I meant," I said, resisting the urge to put my head in my hands again. "What if…" I sighed. "…what if the monster has nothing to do with the Dovahsos, or the Beast Blood? What if the monster… what if it's just me?"

"It isn't you," Brynjolf assured me at once, and Vilkas' nod was emphatic, but I couldn't bring myself to believe them. "You aren't cruel like that. Vicious, sure. But not needlessly ruthless."

These two… gods love them for what they were trying to do, but it wasn't helping. "I need Paarthurnax…" I muttered. "Need to know what's normal for a _dovah, _what's not…"

"What about Odahviing instead?" Vilkas suggested.

Brynjolf's head snapped up. "The Master of the Greybeards is a _dragon?"_

"Yeah, keep it secret," I said to Bryn, tapping him on the nose, then turned to face Vilkas. "I've never talked to Odahviing… mostly just fought with him."

The wolf shrugged. "You need to talk to a _dovah, _love. And he's the only one you've got."

Brynjolf scowled at the epithet, but mercifully didn't comment. "Go on, lass. We'll tell Mercer where you've gone."

I glanced from the thief to the wolf and back again, and my face broke out in a weak smile despite myself. "You know, I don't know _what _I did to deserve friends like you idiots, but I thank Azura for it."

They both rolled their eyes. "Just come back to us, now," Brynjolf said mock-sternly, squeezing my hand as I stood.

As I made my way over to the secret entrance, I heard Vilkas say, "Think we can go back to hating each other yet?"

And Brynjolf reply, "Sweet Talos, I hope so."

-)

The frigid night air whipped past my face as Odahviing rose into the starry sky, but I was too concerned with other things to let it bother me.

I had called him down to Nirn for the second time in twenty-four hours as I stood a ways away from Riften. He had been surprised to be called again so soon, but even _more _surprised that I wasn't asking for help in a fight—I called him for _tinvaak, _to talk. He'd said that if we were going to _tinvaak, _we might as well do it the way _dovah _were supposed to, and he allowed me to climb up on his back. I situated myself between some of the spines on his back, held on to his horns, and, once we were sure I wasn't going to fall off, he took to the skies.

"What troubles you, _mal briinah?" _Odahviing's voice was little more than a rumble from my vantage point, flat on my belly against the scales on his back.

"Earlier, _fahdon," _I said quietly, knowing no matter how loudly or softly I spoke, he'd hear.

"Ah, I had guessed." His wings beat a furious rhythm at his sides as he gained altitude. "You wonder what happened to you, _geh?"_

_ "Geh," _I agreed. "That wasn't me out there…"

"_Geh, _it was," Odahviing told me, and the shock hit me in the gut. "Not the _fahliil, _or even the _bron. _But the _dovah_."

"Too many bloodlines!" I lamented.

Odahviing's rumbling laugh echoed in the otherwise silent night. "Tell me something, _mal dovah_. Of all the _dov _you have bested, of all the _sille…" _souls. "…you have _gahrot…" _stolen. "…how many were _vomuz? _How many were female?"

I blinked at the seemingly random question, but nevertheless dove into myself to answer it. I still heard all of those souls I had taken—almost a hundred, now—but had learned to block them out, for the most part. Sometimes on sleepless nights they would come roaring back, but as a general rule, I learned to control them just like I did the Beast Blood. But as I allowed them to rush over me now, I realized something.

"_Ni pogaan," _I admitted. Not many. "A handful at most."

Odahviing nodded, as though expecting this. "And do you remember the _grahhe_?" Battles.

I paused, trying to remember. "They were the most difficult."

"Have you ever asked yourself why, _Dovahkiin?"_

"No… should I have?"

"Not necessarily," Odahviing countered. "But can you guess why?"

I shook my head, belatedly realizing he couldn't see me. "_Niid." _No.

"The _vomuz dovah _are fewer simply because of their nature." Odahviing was leveling out now, using his powerful wings to glide instead of gain. "They are _brit _and_bruniik__, _known for their _nax _and _rahgol." _

I recognized the first two words from my dreams—beautiful and savage. "I don't understand..." I hated admitting that to the _dov._

But Odahviing didn't mock me for it. As a matter of fact, he seemed more surprised than anything else. I could tell because he flat out answered me, "They are beautiful, and savage. Known for their cruelty, their rage."

_Oh. _"Wonderful," I growled.

"It is not always a bad thing, _mal briinah," _Odahviing hastened to add. _"Rahgol _can be righteous, _nax _justified. _Vomuz dovah _have the most _sulyek _of us all." The most power. "They are the _vahlokke _of our kind, the guardians." His voice lowered, losing its characteristic, haughty cadence. "It is not a job I would wish on my worst _hokoron_." Enemy. "There is a reason every Dovahkiin has been a _mun… _until you."

"What, Nirn not ready to be saved by a mere woman?"

"It is not because Akatosh has no love for his daughters," Odahviing assured me, speaking entirely in the human tongue to be sure I understood. "It is _because_ he loves them that he does not lay such a heavy burden on their shoulders."

My brow furrowed. "What makes me different?"

Odahviing shrugged and nearly threw me off his shoulders. "I could not say." Then his demeanor changed. "Do you know what mine _zeymah _call you?" Brothers.

I cocked an eyebrow, both at the question and his sudden change in attitude. "Dovahkiin?"

"That is a title." Odahviing shook his head. "I meant your name."

My brow furrowed. "No… I don't believe so."

"They call you _konahrik, _and _kro, sah _and _saviik." Warlord _and _sorcerer, phantom _and_ savior. "_But in this tongue, you are Yolvokunkendov–fire, shadow, warrior."

For the second time in ten minutes, he made me say it. "I don't understand."

"You do not have to," he assured me. "A _dovah _needs time to grow into his name, _geh? _You already know most of yours."

"Fire, and warrior," I agreed. I was a Dunmeri Companion; that part pretty much took care of itself. "But shadow?"

Odahviing shrugged again, this time careful not to send me flying. "If you do not know, Akatosh will tell you in _tiid." _Time.

"There you go with the Divines again… do the _dov _really need gods?"

Odahviing seemed amused at this. "Akatosh is our _bormah, mal briinah." _Our father, little sister. "A _wuth dovah _would do well to remember that." A wise dragon.

I paused. "You called me a _vahlok?"_

_ "Geh, Dovahkiin. _You are a guardian."

"What does that mean?" Better than 'I don't understand,' still not good.

"It means," Odahviing said carefully, "living with _zin…" _honor. "…and _kah." _Pride. "It means laying down your _laas, _your life, for your _zeymahhe _and _briinahhe, _if need be. It means you are _mul, _you are _norok." _Strong, fierce.Odahviing and Paarthurnax always break into more and more Draconic when explaining dragonlore. _"Ahrk hiu fen ni kos nahlot." And you will not be silenced. _"Not by _jul…" _man. "…not by _sivaas…" _beast. "...and not by _sulyek." _Power.

One more question. One thing I _had _to know. "In Sovngarde…"

"You succumbed to the _Yol se Aaz," _he interrupted."As it should be."

"The Fire of Mercy… what does it mean?"

Odahviing actually turned his head to get a good look at me, yanking his horns out of my grasp. "Did Paarthurnax not tell you?" I carefully shook my head no. "The _Onik Gein _forgets! _Krosis._ It has been a long time since he was young."

"Odahviing…" I began warningly.

"_Drem, _Dragonborn!" He laughed. "The _Yol se Aaz _is what the _dovah _call…" he paused, scaly brow furrowing. _"Krosis, _I do not know the human word."

I paused, trying to translate. And then, it smacked into me. "_Vedod… _that isn't black snow, is it?"

"_Niid, _it is ash."

"Odahviing," I said, hauling myself forward to look him in the eye. "Is the _Yol se Aaz _what changes a hatchling to a wyrm?"

"_Geh, _exactly. We are _kiin _from ashes once more. I do believe Alduin gave you your trial."

It hit me like a warhammer to the gut. "The winter solstice... the one I spent curled in the snow under Paarthurnax's wing on the Throat of the World. After Alduin set me on _fire_ with his soul. That was a... _rebirth?"_

"Not exactly," he said flippantly, as though talking about the weather. "You are still you, _Dovahkiin. _You are simply now who you were meant to be. The _Sunvaarseyollokke."_

"The Beast of Fire and Skies? Surely you don't mean _dovah."_

"If I meant _dovah, _I would have _said _dovah," he sniffed. "_Krosis, _I do not know that mortal word either."

"Born in ash, and birthed from flame. You might as well be talking about Dunmer in general!"

Odahviing chuckled again. "I do not speak of you blue _fahliille."_

"What do you speak of, then?"

Odahviing let off a puff of smoke, the dragon's version of a sigh. "I wish I knew, _Dovahkiin. _I do not like to leave you in the dark."

I snorted black humorously. "You're not the only one who does that."

Odahviing chuckled. "There is a reason I do not mediate on _Monahven _with Paarthurnax."

"You love battle too much!" I laughed, nudging him with an elbow.

"_Geh!" _He agreed with a grin. "But take heart, Dovahkiin. You are now what you are meant to be. And there is no _sulyek _on Nirn that can take that from you."


	55. Eyes Front

**Hey and thank you to all you awesome people :) Have a chapter, celebrate the weekend a tad early.**

-)

The next morning I awoke to a raspy voice barking "Get up, Elfling!" and several solid objects angrily thumped on my midsection.

"Oof!" I grunted as my stomach lurched. This was _not _the morning for that.

I managed to make it to the side of my cot before introducing the contents of my stomach to the stone floor of the Cistern. "Sweet Mara!" swore my attacker.

"That's not supposed to happen," someone else commented from across the way, in the usual manner of the Cistern.

"Morning sickness is hardly a strange occurrence," a third voice commented, farther than the first, closer than the last.

"Wait, shit!" The raspy voice, this time with a tad bit more concern. "Ty, you're not pregnant, are you?"

A bucket was brought into my line of sight (mercifully, because I was hurling again), as a smoother, lilting accent added, "If she's pregnant, we've got bigger problems!"

"She's not _pregnant_," scoffed the Angel of Mercy who was holding the bucket. I recognized his voice. Sounded a lot like his brother, but less accented. "I'd smell it. It's Thu'um."

I could practically feel the brows furrowing. "The Thu'um can make her sick?" someone asked, at the same time the smooth accent asked, "You could _smell _it?"

"Aye, Thu'um," I agreed all in a rush, now lifting my head and coming face to face with Farkas' concerned gaze. "When I use it…" Grimace. "…too much or too little."

"Go on, Morwyn," Farkas said, setting the bucket down now. "I can take it."

I drew in a shaky breath and barked, "Fus!"

The force blasted him back, but since he didn't slam into anything, it didn't hurt much of anything (or anyone). Almost immediately after the release of power, my stomach stopped churning and I could sit up. Mercer and Brynjolf had been watching the exchange with concerned gazes (albeit one more than the other). "_Laas_," I murmured, releasing even more of the built-up power, and also reassuring myself that I was, in fact, not pregnant. Now the idiots had _me_ all worried. (Of course I wasn't, but still.)

"Feeling better?" Farkas commented, now back at my bedside. Azura only knows how often he'd done this over the years.

"Thank you, old friend," I said to him as I stood, going toe-to-toe with Mercer now. "What is it you need, Guildmaster?"

"Go jump in Lake Honrich first, but I need you to meet me and Brynjolf outside the Bee and Barb in full regalia…"

"Done and done," I said, gathering my Guild armor into a knapsack (Mercer had thumped my boots and my swords onto my gut, I realized). "Just don't do that again, eh?"

"Lesson learned," Mercer agreed hurriedly.

-)

"Everyone clear on the plan?" Mercer asked.

He, Bryn, and I were standing outside the Bee and Barb in full Guild armor. Brynjolf and I both had our hoods up, but Mercer's was down around his shoulders. (Granted, if I had his reputation, I would _so _take advantage of it too.) Lady Black-Briar had "requested" (read: demanded) an audience with the Guildmaster, and so Mercer in his infinite wisdom brought along his two most terrifying operatives—Big, Bad Brynjolf and the (in)famous Dragonborn.

"Crystal," I said, as Brynjolf nodded emphatically.

"Then walk with the Shadows," Mercer said as he pushed the door open. "And eyes front."

Maven Black-Briar was sitting at the table in the center of the room, flanked by her two sons, Sibbi and Hemming. Sibbi was a huge chunk of Nord muscle without much brain to go along with it, and Hemming had been groomed to take over Maven's empire from birth. The end result, however, had made him more of a sycophant than an heir. Hell, Ingun had more of a spine than her eldest brother.

The Bee and Barb was mostly deserted, which wasn't uncommon when Maven Black-Briar deigned to fraternize with the common folk. Keerava watched her (and us thieves) with a wary eye, while Talen-Jei repeatedly swept the same patch of floor as he eyed the two groups. Aela and Farkas, our backup in case things when south, were lounging by the bar, seemingly engrossed in their mead, but actually watching the action intently. Marcurio, the mercenary in the corner, was the only one of the usual patrons to still even be in the room.

Maven surveyed we three thieves with a tight-lipped mask as we approached her table. I couldn't help but note the odd rhythm of our strides. Brynjolf's, loud and purposeful, clearly not trying to play the part of thief. Mercer's, an even, firm stride that could just as easily terrify a man half his size as disappear into the shadows. Mine, a predatory lope, graceful and deadly as an arrow's flight. Mercer stood at point, Brynjolf on his right, me on his left.

"Mercer Frey," Maven greeted, not bothering to stand from the table as we reached the opposite side. "Brynjolf Ceylonson. Tiberia Morwyn."

Each of us nodded at the mention of our names. Mercer did not lower himself to her level; instead, he leaned both hands on the tabletop, same way he did on his desk in the Cistern. Bryn and I both folded our arms across our respective sternums, but Brynjolf met the threat firmly squared up and head-on, while I rocked to a hip and exposed nothing more than my shoulder on down.

"Lady Black-Briar, what can we do for you?" Mercer asked, carefully polite.

"You can tell me what one of my _heirs _is doing in your… _organization." _Maven was clearly furious.

Our faces gave nothing away, but mentally, my brow was furrowing. Maven had been a benefactress of the Guild for years, her family for generations. What was the difference now? Surely it couldn't be as petty as Ingun throwing her lot in with us.

"Ingun came to us, asked to help in the war effort," Mercer replied evenly. "She knew the risks."

"_You _did not have the authority to do such a thing!"

"Lady Black-Briar, you must understand." Mercer's eyebrow quirked, perfectly on cue. "We assumed Ingun _had _your permission. Isn't that how your family has always worked?"

Maven didn't like being outlogicked. It showed on her face. I made a mental note to play Daggerfall High Stakes Poker with the woman if I ever got the chance. "You should have known I would never allow her into such a…" She dropped off.

"Such a _what?" _Mercer prodded.

"Such a fickle profession," she finished, rather diplomatically, given the circumstances. "You are to release her immediately."

"Whoa there, now," Brynjolf interjected, his accent smooth and dangerous. I could tell he had _just _stopped himself from tacking 'lass' onto the end of that. "The Thieves Guild isn't something you can just walk in and out of. Once you're in, you're in for life."

The corner of her mouth twitched. "You _will _make an exception for…"

"We make _no_ exceptions," Mercer interrupted with a tone of voice akin to a bell tolling.

An uneasy silence settled over us. My cue. "There's a storm brewing, Lady Black-Briar," I said, almost flippantly in my disinterest. "You'd best prepare yourself."

Her overly-thin eyebrow quirked. "Are you _threatening_ me, Madam Morwyn?"

"I wouldn't dare," I said, my face the traditional, Elven mask. "Merely giving you a friendly piece of advice." I paused, then realized what she'd called me. If we were going _that _route, might as well pull rank. "And it's _Lady _Morwyn, thank you."

Mercer's face still gave nothing away, but Brynjolf was having issues hiding his smirk. Maven seemed a tad surprised to discover I actually _had _a title, but whatever. "Regardless," she said, whirling on Mercer again. "This isn't up to discussion."

"You're absolutely right," Mercer agreed, still smoothly dangerous. "Ingun is a junior member of the Riften Thieves Guild and you're just going to have to live with it."

It happened in the blink of an eye.

Sibbi's hand went to his sword, and my wolf instincts kicked in. I vaulted across the table, quick as a flash, and watched several blue digits clamp themselves down across Sibbi's throat, seemingly of their own accord. The entirety of the pub was now staring at us, Sibbi caught in the act of unsheathing his sword, my fingers clamped on his throat, squeezing just enough to remind him I could easily finish it, but not enough to actually hurt.

"Do not threaten my Guildsiblings," I growled, and with one more squeeze, violently released his throat and padded back around to take my place by Mercer's shoulder.

Maven was visibly shaken by this display of power, though she tried to hide the extent of it. "You do not want me as an enemy, Mr. Frey," she warned in a dangerous alto.

"Not sure you're useful as an ally, either," the Guildmaster quipped nonchalantly.

"Your little _organization _is still alive thanks only to me…!"

"And do you think we need you now?" Mercer interrupted, deadly calm and perfectly reasonable over Maven's rising hysteria. "Our influence is being restored all across Skyrim. Are you truly so egotistic that you think you are the only benefactor we have?"

Here was the major bluff. True, we'd been regaining footholds in many major cities, and true, some of our old contacts were starting to shake off the dust and get moving again, but it was slow going. Markarth had already been reestablished as an Influenced city, we had a major job in Windhelm that had just rolled in, and the Companions had agreed to watch the Thieves Guild's back in Whiterun, so long as their Harbinger was a member. They weren't too thrilled about it, but found it more dishonorable _not _to watch my back. Problem was, we needed the Black-Briar family if we wanted to keep our pull in Riften.

All of a sudden, Maven's facial features snapped into a deadly mask. "Then I do believe our business is permanently concluded."

As she rose from her seat, Mercer rose to his full height as well. He was taller than the Lady Black-Briar by a good several inches, but her commanding presence made him seem smaller somehow. And that's saying something—past Guildsiblings have literally pissed their pants talking to him.

"As you wish," Mercer said amiably, holding out his hand to close the deal.

She shook it, and I could tell from where I stood that her grip was formidable. Mercer made no indication it hurt. "I run this town," Maven said to him, under her breath. I wouldn't have heard her without the Beast Blood. "You will regret this, Mr. Frey."

Mercer smirked, and rasped, "I doubt it."

Maven snapped her fingers and turned on heel, heading towards the door. Hemming immediately fell into step next to her, but Sibbi hung back. He menacingly cracked his knuckles, saying "I'm gonna enjoy this." as he glared right at me.

I didn't even have to lift a finger: Brynjolf slammed into him with the force of a stallion at full gallop. The collision sent the both of them to the floor and one short, grappling fight later, Brynjolf's knee was pressing into Sibbi's gut, his hands around his throat. "You threaten the lass again," Bryn growled, so low even the Beast Blood was straining to hear him, "and you'll end up tarred and feathered. Are we clear?" Sibbi nodded, which was rather difficult given his current state of affairs. "Wonderful." Brynjolf violently let go, and the other Nord scrambled out the door with his tail between his legs.

Mercer had been watching the situation with veiled interest, his arms folded pensively across his chest. "Now what, boss?" I asked.

"Things will be tight around the Flagon for a while," he replied with a shrug. "Everyone will be running jobs double time. Nothing we haven't dealt with before, I can assure you."

"I never liked her," Brynjolf commented in Maven's general direction.

"Me neither," I agreed. "She's rather… suspicious, don't you think?"

"You don't get to the head of a family like hers without losing at least a bit it," Mercer reminded me.

"I'm not talking in generalities, here," I said, pausing for thought. "She's suspicious of _us."_

Bryn's brow furrowed. "Who wouldn't be? We're thieves!"

"Dragonborn, it's probably just _you _she's suspicious of," Mercer told me as we three began to trek back to the Cistern. "She's cozied up to the Thalmor, got friends in the Imperial City. You'd best watch your back."

"Isn't that the motto of Riften?" I lamented.

Mercer split off from us, heading back across town towards the secret entrance, leaving Brynjolf and I standing alone outside the front door to the Bee and Barb. "So, lass," Brynjolf said, leaning against the railing. "What did Odahviing have to say?"

I let out a sigh, leaning against the railing beside him. "Dragons talk in circles; it's _exhausting _trying to have a straight conversation with one."

Bryn laughed, asking, "Sounds a lot like some other people I could mention…"

I laughed despite myself, accompanying it with a playful shove. "This is what you get for courting the Dragonborn, icebrain,"

Bryn didn't shove back, merely dug his heels into the ground to keep himself from falling over. "But seriously, lass. Are you alright?"

I sighed, the weight of Odahviing's words coming back to me. "Yeah, I'm alright. Apparently it's perfectly normal for female dragons to live in a permanent state of hysteria and wrath…"

A look of horror crossed his face. "Those poor male dragons…"

I snorted at that. "They're angrier than the male dragons, bigger and badder. But also fewer."

"I suppose they'll have to take what mercy they can get, 'ey lass?"

"Aye… But they're also the _vahlokke _of the _dov. _The guardians."

Brynjolf cocked an eyebrow. "And that means… what, exactly?"

"Not sure," I said, staring down at my boots. "Odahviing wasn't exactly clear on what half of this all means. He made it sound like the _dovah _equivalent to the Companions—living with honor, the life of a warrior, and all that—but there's something he's not telling me. I can feel it."

Two of the kids from Honorhall Orphanage blew by us, then, laughing and playing tag in the streets. Funny, my childhood had never been as carefree as that. I always had the weight of my family name on my shoulders. Perhaps being an orphan wasn't so much of a curse, especially now that Grelod the Kind had taken the celestial dirt nap. (Gods bless Avalon.)

Brynjolf watched them go with a different look on his face. "Lass, he's trying to protect you," he said to me.

"He's doing me no favors," I replied, then paused. "Everything all right?"

"Hmm? Of course." Brynjolf snapped his attention back to me. "Sorry. Raynor and I used to do the same thing when we were kids." He gestured loosely after the two orphans. "Odahviing mention anything else important?"

I paused, mulling it over. "Do you remember what I told you out in the Ratway, that day I became a wolf again?"

He nodded slowly. "Aye, the Draconic prophecy?"

I nodded. "The opening—_nol yol se aaz, vedod se kiin_—I've been translating it wrong."

"Might explain why it didn't make any sense. So what does it _actually _mean?"

I drew in a breath. "From the Fire of Mercy, the ashes of rebirth…" I made a rolling motion with my hands, signifying the rest of the prophecy. "But apparently Paarthurnax never bothered to tell me what that _meant."_

"Sweet Talos, you sound angry…"

Absurd laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep in the recesses of my soul. "It's the dragon equivalent to _puberty."_

Brynjolf burst out laughing, as much from what I'd said as from the sheer absurdity of it all (he told me later). "Merciful Talos, no one ever bothered to mention to you you'd have to go through that _twice?"_

"That's not even the best part," I warned, still laughing hysterically. "The best part is—it's _literal. _A hatchling grows into a wyrm by being set on _fire, _and rising from its own ashes."

Concern replaced the mirth in his eyes. "They said the Dragonborn came back from Sovngarde burned from head to toe…"

I nodded quietly. I'd never told the whole story before. "I was sent back to Nirn on the winter solstice. I spent the longest night of the year curled in the snow on the Throat of the World, under Paarthurnax's wing." I shuddered at the memory. "And I… I don't know what happened that night, but I remember falling asleep a charred mess, and waking up with newly healed skin, and feeling… off. Like something deep in here…" I thumped my chest with my fist. "…had changed."

Brynjolf was shaking his head in disbelief. "How can anyone survive that…?"

I shrugged, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "I don't know. Paarthurnax figures it was my Dunmer blood, mixed with the Dovahsos, mixed with the fast healing of the Beast Blood."

"So what… what started it? Alduin?"

I nodded, staring at my knuckles, now, my voice no more than a whisper. "His soul, Bryn. It was awful, like a void all its own. I didn't absorb it—I _couldn't..." _I felt a gentle squeeze on my shoulder, as if to say, 'I'm here.' His clan ring dug into my armor. "And it was like a whip as the winds of time took it. He lashed out, struck me, and next thing I knew… fire. Fire _everywhere…"_

We were quiet once again in the warm Riften sunshine. No one traveled this far out of their way, unless they were going to the Pawned Prawn, and merely our Guild armor was more than enough of a deterrent for most. We were more or less alone in this waterfront city.

"Fire took everything I ever loved from me, too," Brynjolf finally said, unusually quiet. "Raynor, my parents, most of the Clan, our home in Falkreath… everything."

"Guess we're not so different, you and I," I said for not the first time.

He smiled wanly. "I knew there was something I liked about you."

"BRYNJOLF! TIBERIA!" Our names cut through the air with frightening clarity.

We both whirled to face the noise, finding one Vipir the Fleet, looking rather winded. "We need you down in the Flagon." Pant pant. "Right _now!"_

"On our way," said the Nord and the Dark Elf in unison, already on the move.

The three of us made our way down to the Ragged Flagon by means of the secret entrance from the Cistern. The entire bar was up in arms, weapons out, Mercer present, and one hooded, robed figure sitting in a chair, hands bound before him. He must have heard the three of us enter, because he glanced up just as we reached the open floor of the bar, our own weapons drawn. I realized he was dressed in Thalmor robes and immediately became three times as suspicious.

"Good Day, Lady Tiberia," he said, raising his face to the light now.

Even in my shock and anger, I never forgot my manners. "Good Day, Sir Ondolemar."

This party just never ended.


	56. Roll the Dice

**Hey all you awesome people :) Thank you so much for your thoughts and time; here's a new one!**

**Aleidis: Ulfric never has to answer for his Thalmor involvement in-game. I aim to remedy that. :3 he really is a hypocrite…**

**-)**

"What are you doing here?" I barked at Ondolemar.

See, I knew him. He was one of Neva's friends, who used to bunk at the literal House Morwyn when I was growing up. Unlike Cyrano, though, Ondolemar would actually talk to the youngest sister like she was something other than a piece of furniture ("Good day, little Tiberia! How fare your studies? Conjuration, eh? I was never good with that school. Of course, you're a Dunmer, so I'm sure you have nothing to worry about.") That didn't absolve him of his other crimes (not by a gods-damned long shot), but it _did _remind me that Ondolemar was probably the least worrisome Thalmor. He looked about the same as he had in my youth—long face, high cheekbones, lanky figure, bronze skin—right down to the air of distaste he seemed to constantly exude. He was young for a Thalmor, less than a century. Actually, now that I thought about it, he was probably closer in age to _me_ than he was to Neva.

"The lad came down 'ere not too long after you three left," Delvin supplied, his dagger out of its sheath for the second time in my memory and leveled at the Thalmor sitting in our midst. "Gave himself up, allowed 'imself to be bound, so long as we let 'im talk to you."

I whirled to face Ondolemar, swords in the ready position. "What need have you of me, eh?"

Ondolemar's head cocked to the side, clearly pondering something. "Your cadence is so… bizarre." He had an accent straight out of Alinor, smooth but with sharpened vowels. "It's elven in formality and human in directness."

"A little trick I picked up from the Nords," I replied swiftly. "It's called talking straight. You should try it sometime."

"Like right now," growled a familiar voice. I didn't even need to turn my head to know that the Wolf Twins had arrived on the scene. (Or maybe they'd been here all along, and I just hadn't seen them. Quite possible.)

Ondolemar, to his credit, remained unfazed in such hostile enemy territory. "I came here for the same reason anyone does. I wish to join the Riften Thieves Guild."

Murmurs arose throughout the bar, most of them insulting and angry in nature. "Right," I said, absurd laughter reminiscent of Cicero's bubbling up to the surface, "sure. Because not only will an _Altmer _stoop _so low, _but also Mercer will even let you _in!"_

I expected a fully Altmeri response—a "How _dare _you!" or a "You _dare _mock me!?"—but instead got something quite different

"I knew you wouldn't believe me, and rightfully so," said Ondolemar. "If I were you, I wouldn't trust a Thalmor, either. But what say you to just a High Elf, eh? Don't let Cyrano cloud your judgment, Lady Morwyn."

"The rest of House Feliciano didn't exactly endear your race to me, either."

"Would you judge Nords based on Ulfric Stormcloak? Or Imperials on General Tulius!?" He was getting vaguely angry about this. "Or all Dunmer on the _Nerevarine!?"_

"You have some nerve," I growled over him, "showing up here in the Thalmor uniform and expecting clemency." Some outspoken agreements.

"Peace, Lady Tiberia!" He held up his bound hands, palms facing towards himself (a mage's sign of mollification, signifying "Hey, I'm not about to start casting fireballs at you!"). "Peace, all of you! I do not mean you harm. I've actually brought a peace offering—two, in fact—to the Lady to prove my sincerity."

"It's a trap," warned Mercer automatically.

"The elf isn't lying," Aela informed the room. "He doesn't smell of deceit or glamour, he looks her in the eye, and his heartbeat is still even."

"Hard to deceive through all that," Vilkas agreed begrudgingly.

"He has the first one," Ondolemar said, gesturing with his head towards Vilkas. "His brother, the second—and someone _please _tell me they're twins, or I swear, I'm on my way to the Shivering Isles!"

"They're twins," I confirmed with a begrudging smile.

"The Wolf Twins of the Companions, then," Ondolemar conceded with a nod. "Their reputations precede them."

"As a Companion's should," I remarked, then turned to Vilkas. "My friend, if you would be so kind…?" I gestured for him to hand me the lumpy, dark package in his hands.

"I don't trust it," my Soul-Shield warned me. He held it as though it burned him. "There's bound to be _something _enchanted on it…"

"I think I'm far more capable in dealing with elven glamour than you, Vilkas," I quipped, gesturing more impatiently for the bag in his hands.

"There you go again," he said half-mournfully, half-resignedly, finally handing it over. "Talking like an elf."

"As if she would speak any other way," Niruin commented dryly.

I set the bag down on the table, aware of the intent eyes of everyone in the room and Ondolemar's pained expression. Gingerly, as though expecting it to explode at any time, I carefully untied the drawstrings and jerked the bag open, making sure the newly-enlarged hole was pointing at none but Ondolemar. When nothing exploded or crawled out, I thumped its contents twice, just to be sure. Then I picked it up, and looked inside…

…and nearly dropped the thing in shock.

"This is her _head!" _I couldn't help but shriek, gesturing to the contents of the bag. "This is Elenwen's _head!"_

"Aye, it is," Ondolemar agreed, even as Mercer said, "Go on, Ty."

I grabbed a fistful of blonde, Altmeri tresses and yanked the grisly trophy out of its prison. Now in the firelight, there was no room for discussion—this was truly the head of the First Emissary of Skyrim. The eyes were closed, the mouth a grim line, blood still dripping from where it had once sat attached to her shoulders; she could have been sleeping when she'd died.

"I had never used an axe before in my life," Ondolemar said sardonically to the mystified room. "Sorry, it's probably a tad sloppy."

I thrust the head near his own. "Explain this!"

"Do you want the long version, or the short version?" Ondolemar asked, politely ignoring the head of his kinsman floating near his face.

"I'd settle for either," Brynjolf muttered, not taking his eyes of the head in my hand.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Tonilia muttered from behind the bar.

Ondolemar sighed, no doubt thinking rather demeaning thoughts about my Guildsiblings. "In short, the Thalmor in Skyrim now is a bloodthirsty, genocidal _cult. _It is _not _the proud Aldmeri Dominion for which I pledged my life! The superiority of Mer, the banning of Talos worship, the racism that feedstheir cause… it is but a lie. A well-crafted lie."

My wolf senses told me he was telling his truth, but I couldn't believe my ears. "Oh, really?" I snapped. "And what informed you of this _obvious _fact?"

He shot me a withering glare. "I have spent many a year amongst the races of man—more than you've been _alive, _need I remind you—and sitting in Solitude with nothing to do has given me plenty of time to think."

"This is _still_ dripping blood," I growled, shaking Elenwen's head for emphasis. Ondolemar's eyes narrowed under my scrutiny. "Well that would be the next point of my story, if you would be so _kind _as to…"

"Do not threaten my sister," growled a voice from atop the bar, "or I will _happily _put an arrow in your eye."

The room turned as one to see Avalon standing atop Vekel's meticulously-kept bar, her customary Ebony bow fully drawn back with a poisoned arrow, aimed directly at Ondolemar. Even if she hadn't been standing eight feet away, there was no way she could have missed.

"That goes for all of you," she added as an afterthought.

Regaining some of his composure, Ondolemar continued, "Your victory at the Battle of Riften did not go unheeded, Lady Tiberia. There are certain people—_powerful _people—who wish your death even more earnestly now."

"The Thalmor chief among them," I hissed, much to the agreement of my Guild- and Shield-Siblings.

"And that is why I am here," Ondolemar said, oblivious to the chaos he had just caused. "I am here," he boomed over the rising panic, "to _warn _you."

"Like hell you are!" I shrieked, dropping Elenwen's head on the table and drawing my swords again. "I'll send you to Oblivion!"

"Tiberia, calm _down!" _Vex hissed, jerking me back by my hood. "He's unarmed, bound, and Avalon's arrow is dipped in magicka poison. Listen to the damn man _before _you start poking holes in his hide! Or have you become worse than your ex-captors?"

That was a low (accurate) blow. I sheathed my swords, and growled. "Explain yourself. _Now."_

Ondolemar held up his hands again, still with his palms facing toward himself. "Two weeks ago, foure Thalmor agents met with their most powerful sleeper agent at his home in Windhelm—the infamous Ulfric Stormcloak. His orders were to either capture the Dragonborn, or get the information we needed out of her before she died. Under the guise of liberating her from the Thieves Guild of Riften, he marched on the city." He drew in a breath. "Those three agents were myself, Elenwen, Neva Morwyn, and Rulindil.

"Ulfric's subsequent loss at Riften produced less-than-admirable reactions in himself and Elenwen, and a new plan of action was formed." Ondolemar shuddered visibly. "There was talk of involving the Dark Brotherhood, the Imperial Army, the Forsworn. In the end, it was decided that Elenwen herself would come to Riften under the guise of a social visit to friend Maven Black-Briar, and from there capture and later kill the Dragonborn." With a smirk, Ondolemar jerked his head towards where Elenwen's head rested on the table. "She never got that far."

"You still haven't said why you decided to turn traitor, kill your leader, and run," Mercer interrupted.

Ondolemar sighed. "I know the Morwyn family. Once upon a more enlightened time, I even called all three Sisters friend."

"Aye," Avalon said quietly, still holding the bowstring taut.

"Aye," I murmured, folding my arms across my torso.

"And since I know the Morwyn family," Ondolemar continued, "I know which ones giving _power _to will result in tragedy. Avalon is the Listener, this was meant to be. Tiberia is the Dragonborn, this makes sense. Neva is…" Here he paused, trying to come up a diplomatic way to say it. Finding none, he said, "Neva is power-hungry and blood thirsty, and Boethiah plots to ascend her to the throne."

"Of _what?" _asked Vipir, suddenly terrified for his country.

"First Skyrim, then the Empire, then Tamriel," Ondolemar muttered, eyes wide at the horrific memory. "Last night, I lay there tossing and turning and the Lord Sheogorath came to me in a dream gave me two choices: either stand up for what was right, or lose myself to the darkness, to the madness."

"And you chose the former," Delvin said dubiously.

"I chopped off the First Emissary's _head!"_ Ondolemar shouted, his composed veneer cracking for the first time, revealing how terrified he truly was. "If they catch me, I'll be arrested for treason, if not murdered on the spot! They'll know I did it—Rulindil's an _idiot_ and Neva's back in Solitude."

"So you throw in your lot with _us," _Sapphire muttered.

"_I had no choice," _Ondolemar said, making a herculean effort to keep his voice down. "They say if you have nowhere left to go in Skyrim, you have two options—the Dark Brotherhood, and the Thieves Guild." Nods of assent from the surrounding members (and non-members, for that matter). "Given that I don't have the stomach for orchestrated murder, that left one option."

"We don't take charity," Mercer warned, sounding for all the world like he was going to actually _admit _the man.

"The other Twin has proof I'm not a charity case," Ondolemar said, jerking his head towards Farkas. "This has been locked up in the treasury vault at the Palace of the Kings for years—I think Lady Tiberia will recognize it."

Farkas handed me his bag without prompting. I took it in my hands, surprised at how heavy it was, and set it on the table next to Elenwen's head. I carefully undid the drawstring away from myself, thumped it twice (I still wasn't taking any chances), and then peered inside. "It can't be…" I murmured, carefully lifting out the top item.

Ondolemar's grin was self-satisfied, but not obnoxiously so. "It is. Go on."

I held up the gauntlet made of white, thick bone. "My Dragon bone armor. You stole from _Ulfric Stormcloak _the Dragon bone armor I forged from the bones of an Elder Dragon, that was stolen from _me _the first time I ever took it off."

Murmured gasps went about the room as the Altmer shrugged. "It's been gathering dust in Stormcloak's treasury room the whole time. There was a lot he didn't tell you, my… Lady Tiberia."

Friend, he'd been about to call me. "If you managed to steal this out from under Ulfirc's nose, _and _behead the First Emissary while you're at it," Brynjolf began, "you may actually be of some use to us."

I turned to him in shock. "You're not _actually _thinking of inducting him!?"

"I've made worse gambles before," Bryn said with a shrug.

"You're letting your racism cloud your judgment," Mercer rasped sternly. "He's given us no reason to distrust him, other than the fact that he was a Thalmor. Even Ulfric Stormcloak, little elfling, was once a legionnaire. That said…" he whirled to face Ondolemar. "Let's get a few things straight here, High Elf." Ondolemar straightened up, not daring to hope just yet. "First," began Mercer, holding up one gnarled finger, "you are not to sleep in the Cistern when Tiberia is home. There are plenty of alcoves here in the Flagon—you'll sleep there."

Ondolemar nodded. "Understood."

"Two," Mercer continued, putting up another finger, "you are not to leave the Cistern without either my express, _written _consent, or a Guildsibling with you _at all times_. Three, you are to burn that uniform in full view of the rest of the Guild."

Ondolemar bit back on his teeth, his voice a snarl: "_Gladly." _

"Four…" another weathered finger. "…you will turn over any and all possessions on your person to Niruin, who will make sure they're not unduly enchanted. Five, you are to wear an Amulet of Talos at _all _times, until I've deemed that you've learned your lesson. And six, if you in any way threaten my Guild, spy on us, hang us out to dry, or betray us, the retaliation will be swift and short, and there will be no mercy. Do I make myself clear?"

Ondolemar nodded. "Perfectly, sir."

"Wonderful," Mercer growled, then turned and barked, "_Niruin! Tonilia! _Find him some armor and get to work!"

I leaned against the table as though physically stunned. They'd _actually _let the wolf _in. _He might not have _seemed _like he was lying, but I knew better. The Thalmor are lying bastards, every last gods-damned one of them. "I don't believe it…"

"Tiberia, you're paranoid," Sapphire quipped from across the room.

"She's got every reason to be." Brynjolf put an end to the argument before it began.

"Honestly," Ondolemar said as Vex cut his bonds free, "how _did _you make it to a quarter of a century without getting yourself killed, Lady Tiberia?"

_That _shut the Flagon up. "How do you know my age?" I asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"You were born five years after the end of the Great War, sera." Ondolemar snorted in disbelief. "I was a guest in House Morwyn, and therefore was there on the day of your _birth_." At the disbelieving looks he was getting, Ondolemar let out an enormous sigh and said, "The Twelfth of Frostfall, Fourth Era, Year One-Hundred and Seventy-Six, the Lady Acacia went into labor just after sundown. Woke up the whole house, and they sent me to get Lady Avalon from the Morag Tong Citadel in town…" He glanced to Avalon for confirmation.

"That _was_ you, wasn't it?" she said, remembering, and lowering the bow ever-so-slightly. "Sweet Sithis, I'd forgotten…"

Ondolemar nodded. "Lady Tiberia was born just after three in the morning on the Thirteenth of Frostfall. Dedicated to Azura just as dawn broke—but not before Sheogorath had claimed her."

Holy Azura's ghost, he _had _been there. But I didn't dwell on it right now. There were more important things I needed to do today.

-)

"Fear not, Harbinger," Athis said to me quietly. "I'll take his remains back to Morrowind."

We stood just outside the Temple of Mara's Hall of the Dead, where the rather curt priestess handed us Brand-Shei's remains without a fuss. He had been, at least, burned in the traditional Dunmeri way, and the jar Athis now held was not ornate, but it was clean and painted with a thick Oblivion gate. Most important, his bones were intact. His soul would cross to the next world.

"You should be with the Companions, celebrating Torvar's life," I said, fighting back tears. Brand-Shei had been the closest thing I had to kin in Riften for a long time. By all rights, _I _should have been the one taking him back to Morrowind, to the Telvanni halls, or to a City of the Dead. "I will…"

"You have greater duties to Skyrim than I do," Athis interrupted gently, clapping his hand to my shoulder. "Torvar deserves to have his Harbinger there, and there are plenty to sing his praises." He looked pained as he said this, but his next statement erased his doubt. "And Brand-Shei… Brandyl… whatever his name was, he was the last of the Telvanni. It is our duty as Dunmer to bring him home, in death, if not life."

He was right. We were Dunmer first. "I still don't…"

"Morwyn, you have a greater duty to the Companions and to the Thieves Guild," he said in a no-nonsense manner as we continued down the boardwalk and into the Ratway. "Avalon needs to get back to the Dark Brotherhood, and there are no more of us within the ranks. I will take his remains back home, Morwyn. Take heart."

"It feels wrong somehow," was all I said.

Our conversation paused as we greeted some of the thugs living here in the Ratway, and picked up as we reached the Ragged Flagon again. "I know it does," Athis agreed gently. "But your life is not merely your own."

I sighed. "You're not the first person to tell me that."

"And I won't be the last."

We reached the Flagon just in time to see Ondolemar, now dressed in Guild leathers, wadding his Thalmor robes into a ball and setting the damn things on fire in a rather impressive show of magic. A few whistles followed the display, but before long everyone had just gone back to their drinks, no harm done. "Lady Tiberia!" I heard my name and title called from behind me as I made my way over to the Cistern—that could only mean one person.

"Look Ondolemar, let's get one thing straight," I growled as the Altmer reached a respectable conversational distance. "I don't trust you; I may _never _trust you; and if you give me even one _inkling _that you were less than one-hundred percent truthful out there, I will not hesitate to put a dagger between your eyes. Clear?"

"Perfectly," he said evenly. "Look, Lady…"

"And cut it with the titles," I snapped. "I'm just Tiberia, here. Morwyn, even, if you like. The Nords tend to call me Ty."

"Ty," the High Elf said carefully, testing out my new name and finding it strange, "is it true what they say about you in all the taverns? That you can kill a man without lifting a finger, and set things on fire with your _voice?"_

I nodded. "It's called the Thu'um. I speak the language of the Dragons, I shout as they do. Keep that in mind, eh?"

"Merciful Akatosh…" he muttered as I made my way back into the Cistern.

I had made it maybe three steps in when hell broke loose in the space of a moment. Before it, Avalon stood talking with Rune, laughing at something inevitably stupid that came out of his mouth, and after it, she stood stock-still, her cherry-red eyes glazing over in a milky-white sheen. She twisted around a moment in the middle of the Cistern, as though her name had been shouted from one of its corners and she couldn't identify which.

"The Listener is listening!" Cicero was practically beside himself with joy, clapping his hands and breaking out into his odd little dance. "Shh, my good thieves and wolves, _shh! _No one touch our sweet, sweet Listener! The Night Mother calls!"

"Can the Night Mother even speak from this distance?" Veezara asked Cicero carefully.

Cicero still took offense; he leveled his glare on the Argonian and said, "I don't know. _I'm _not the Listener."

Veezara held up both hands for peace, shuffling away to stand by Cynric and Niruin.

"Speak, Mother, I listen," Avalon called to the ceiling. "Your servant is ever-listening."

There was a pause, a voice resounding that only she could hear. Her brow furrowed at it, her countenance clouding over. "_What?"_

Another silence, another reply only Avalon could hear. "No," she said firmly, and Cicero, Arnbjorn, and Veezara looked appalled. "I will not take that contract."

Her brow furrowed even deeper. "What good is being a band of killers-for-hire if we can't refuse jobs?"

Avalon suddenly clapped her hands over her ears, as though someone were bellowing in them. "_No!" _she cried. "Oh, no; no; no! I will not take this contract!"

The force of the silent reply brought her to her knees, and when she raised her head to cry out to the skies, tears were streaming down her face. "Sweet Mother, Dread Father, let this pass; _let this shroud pass! _Lift this burden from my shoulders! _I WILL NOT TAKE THIS CONTRACT!" _Her sudden volume startled the assembled Thieves, Companions, and Assassins.

The silent reply was even harsher, for Avalon was crying in earnest now, her face pinched and her heart breaking. "Mephala! Sithis! _Talos! _Whichever of you is listening, _let this pass! Relieve me of this burden! _Oh, let this pass, let this pass over me!"

Her head was whipping around now, as though trying to find the source of the voices in her mind. "Lady Azura, take this weight from my shoulders! Lord Sheogorath, guard us! Lord Dagon, let me honor you in the wake of its destruction! Oh, let this pass, let this shroud pass over me. _I will not take this contract!"_

Watching Avalon's internal struggle was heart wrenching. Who could the Night Mother be telling her to kill that would put my sister in such a state?

The answer was clearly something awful, because Avalon continued, "Lord Stendarr, god of Mercy, let this pass! Lord Talos, Dragonborn of eld, _let the shroud pass! _Lady Mara, goddess of Love, lift this burden from my shoulders! _I will not take this contract." _Avalon's entire body was shaking, and the tears streaming down her face and pooling at her feet were blood red.

I knew we were in deep shit when she started invoking the Divines, but still more Daedra came.

"Vaermina, Malacath, Hermaeus Mora! Hear me; guard her! If not for me, then for _your_ devout." Her shoulders were still shaking. "Sweet Mother, Dread Father, do not ask this of me! I will not kill blood of my own! This is shamefull; you cannot ask this of me."

The voice only she could hear replied again, and this time Avalon choked out, "Darkness rises when silence dies. Divines damn you, _darkness rises when silence dies!"_

Cicero seemed to recognize those words. "Dear Listener, sweet Listener, tell Cicero, what did you hear?"

Avalon's eyes lost their milky-white sheen and returned to their usual fiery red. She continued to sob as Cicero crouched beside her, lifting her head and murmuring something too low for the rest of the room to hear. She glanced about the room, and then her gaze settled on me.

"Who is it for, Listener?" Cicero pressed gently.

"I am Tong before I am Brotherhood," she said sharply, "and before I am even an assassin, _I am a Morwyn! _I will not become a kinkiller. No, no, no, I will _not!_" She was shaking her head, as though that would relieve her of this burden.

"Lass…?" Brynjolf's voice had a warning tone to it.

"Tiberia," she croaked, and I had never heard my name uttered with so much anguish. "The Contract she gave me was for Tiberia."

Mercer was the first to get over the shock. "Get out. Every assassin in this room—_get out!"_

Veezara, Cicero, and Arnbjorn snapped into action, heading for the doors, but Avalon stumbled to me first. She enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug, even as Brynjolf drew his war axe and the Wolf Twins began to bubble over into wolves.

"I will not let them take you," Avalon whispered fiercely as she hugged me so tight, she nearly cracked my ribs. "Blood is stronger than steel."

But was it stronger than gold?


	57. H(a)unted

**Hey all, have a chapter! I love all you readers, lurkers, and reviewers :)**

**You know the drill:**

**Seth11112: Thank you! I'm so glad you enjoy :) and I call them stories**

**Lisa: Very perceptive, I'm rather impressed :) Your questions will all be answered in time. No worries.**

**Kazu: I like to surprise EVERYONE. Let's be real here. And thank you :)**

**Aleidis: le shh! You're going to give away the story! :3 and that would be an AWESOME DLC**

**-)**

"Lass, this is a _bad _idea," Brynjolf asserted for the umpteenth time that day.

We were in the Cistern, me gathering my Guild and Wolf armor into a knapsack, procuring my swords, finding potions, and garnering courage for what I was going to do next, he leaning against the wall, trying to talk me out of it. I was headed to Whiterun for Torvar's funeral, then to Windhelm to meet up with Mercer. From there, he and I would take Snow-Veil Sanctum, and take _out _Karliah. Mercer also hoped to find the old Guildmaster Gallus' remains while we were there. Snow-Veil seemed to me like any other burial cairn in Skyrim, full of draugr and traps, possibly treasure, and therefore easy enough to delve into. Hopefully I wasn't going to get any _fun_ surprises from, say, a Dragon Priest or Word Wall.

"Regardless," I said through clenched teeth, "I'm going."

_Avalon's been ordered to kill me._

"Ty." His tone left no room for argument (I argued anyway). "You know as well as I do that the only reason people like us are still alive is gut instinct. And this? This plan of Mercer's? _Absolutely _suicidal! He's going to get you killed."

"I'll be _fine." _I was making a real effort not to growl. "You act as though I've never gone cairn-diving before."

"It isn't that I don't think you can handle yourself around draugr—or worse," Brynjolf began, his hand on his temple to assuage his raging headache, "but that something isn't sitting right with me. The story doesn't add up. How did Karliah have time to dump Gallus in the ruins with Mercer there? Why has he never gone back? And now he's taking _you? _Not Vex, or Delvin, or hell, even me?"

"You're paranoid," I snapped, "in all the wrong instances."

_Avalon's been ordered to kill me._

"Not this again! Sweet, merciful Talos, Ondolemar has been nothing but an asset since his arrival. His only downside is that he was formerly a Thalmor!"

"There's no such thing as an ex-Thalmor! Once in, you're in for life."

"You're letting past grievances judge the present..."

"As are you!"

That shut him up. "I'm going," I hissed, "and you're just going to have to tell your superstition to calm itself."

Brynjolf's snort was surprised. "I should think a Daedra Worshipper knows about _superstition!"_

That shut _me _up. _Avalon has been ordered to kill me. _"How _dare _you," I finally growled.

Brynjolf realized his mistake far too late. "Shit," he muttered. "Ty…!"

"We're finished here," I barked over his rising argument, shouldering my pack.

"Tiberia, I…"

"_Finished!"_

_Avalon's been ordered to kill me._

I began to make my way over to the secret entrance. "Lass, I'm _sorry. _That didn't come out right…"

"You're bloody right it didn't!" I shot back.

"Tiberia…" I felt his hand on my shoulder.

I shook it off. "Brynjolf."

I turned to face him now, fiery crimson eyes squaring up against emerald green ones. "It isn't right," he offered, and my wolf senses told me there was true fear under his words. "Something is just… _off."_

I cocked my head. "If you can't give me more of a reason than that, just live with it."

Saw right through that one, he did. "Lass, I know you're scared, what with the Dark Brotherhood and all…"

"Avalon's been ordered to kill me," I said softly, finally voicing the terrifying thought aloud. "She's never failed a contract. _Ever." _Not in all her years under the army, the Morag Tong, and the Dark Brotherhood had she ever lost a kill.

His eyes were sad, his face a grim line, and his words were cold: "Avalon gave the _order _to kill you."

Merciful Talos, this again. "We're done here!" I barked over my shoulder before ascending topside.

"_Dammit, Tiberia…!" _wafted up from below as I slammed the sewer grate shut.

_Gods, _that man! Either he's your best friend or your worst enemy—there is no in between. Honestly, I was amazed this was our first true argument. There had been scuffles in the past, sure, just like everyone had with friends. But not like this. This was more like what I'd put up with when Vilkas was around. A difference of opinion too great to ignore, a major departure from one's personal beliefs.

I padded out into the Riften proper, and before long found myself in the company of the Wolf Twins, both of whom were also dressed in civilian clothes that, when torn to ribbons, wouldn't be missed. "Everything alright, Morwyn?" Farkas asked carefully.

They could sense that I was upset, hear my thumping heartbeat, smell the fury in my blood. "Absolutely," I replied dully. "Can we just get going?"

"Of course…" Vilkas began, then his brow furrowed. "Why do you have Elenwen's head?"

The bag had been set into my knapsack beforehand; he must have smelled it. "Because," I said, fully aware of my vengeful nature coming out, "it's going on a _pike _next to the front gate."

And no more was said on the subject.

-)

Aela had gone ahead of us with Torvar's body and the rest of the Company, leaving the Twins and me to play catch up for the rest of the week. Not that they'd hold the funeral without us, but we didn't appreciate having everyone wait for us. It took three uneventful days to get to Whiterun when we alternately ran as wolves, and continued as men. We were careful not to stay in the bestial forms too long, lest we repeat the aftermath of the Battle of Riften. (They were _still _terrified… and with good reason.)

The twilight after we three arrived, the Companions in their entirety stood on the cliff overlooking Jorrvaskr, the home of the Skyforge. Torvar's funeral pyre had been built according to Nord custom, sky-high and decorated with mountain flowers of all hues. The body itself was pale, cleaned, and clad in nothing but a loincloth—symbolically, as clean as his name day.

We warriors all clustered around the Skyforge in the dying light of day. Eorland stood off to the side, Isembard nearby, never out of earshot. Njada stood near Ria, not knowing what to do as the young Imperial sobbed uncontrollably (she had been his Shield-Sister that day: "I don't know what happened! I feinted, went in for another kill, turned around, and saw the lights leave his eyes…"). Claudius stood stoically with his arms folded across his chest, a stone's throw from Vignar Gray-Mane and his manservant Brill, both of whom had elected to stay back and keep an eye on Jorrvaskr during everyone else's absence. (Though I dared not admit it to everyone else, I was also fairly certain Vignar knew that if he went into battle again, he would not come out.) Farkas stood stoically with his arm around Aela, who was staring unblinkingly into the pyre. And Vilkas, as always, was at my side, his face a blank, unreadable mask.

"Who will start?" I asked, my voice thundering across the silent assembly, the torch in my hand held high. As Harbinger, it was my right to send him off to Talos the right way.

"I will," volunteered Farkas after a moment, and in the silence he began the ancient Companions ritual: "Before the Ancient Flame…"

"…We grieve," the rest of us intoned in sepulchral unison.

"At this loss…" Aela continued, her countenance like stone.

"…We weep."

"For the Fallen…" Vilkas added, his accent cutting through the rising darkness swiftly and roughly.

"…We shout."

"And for ourselves…" I finished in my smooth elven cadence, striding forward.

"…We take our leave."

I set the torch to the pyre and the whole thing went up in greedy flames almost instantly. I held the torch aloft, careful to keep the fire away from me. Such a powerful element, so beautiful, so _dangerous. _"His spirit is departed," I said to the assembled warriors, "the Ancestors watch him now. Let us celebrate his life, even as we mourn his death."

The celebration that night was alternately raucous and mournful, as all Companions' funerals were. We told stories of Torvar's triumphs, skimmed over his failings, and sang loudly the praises he'd rightfully earned. Mead flowed freely, food tasted of ash, and the exhausted warriors drifted to bed, one by one. Even I myself had to retire at some point, knowing somewhere in my heart of hearts that attempting sleep was futile.

True to form, I tossed and turned in a restless sleep for a good couple of hours before I finally just gave up and hiked up the stairs to the main room of Jorrvaskr, then out the door and up to the Skyforge. The night air was a much-needed shock to my systems, though even in my fur cloak, I was still cold. The pyre was all but burnt out, now, Torvar well on his way to Sonvgarde, his mortal remains furthering the strength of the Skyforge steel that would keep his Shield-Siblings safe here on Nirn. I settled down with my back against the forge, gazing out over Jorrvaskr and the city of Whiterun, ruminating over things I probably shouldn't have.

Avalon, my Blood Bond, my big sister, the one I looked up to, the only member of my blood family that I _trusted_. She had been ordered (alright, _gave _the order) to kill me, Brotherhood style. To use an assassin was so impersonal, so cowardly. It wasn't that I didn't think anyone wanted me dead—far from it, I have _way _too many enemies to be that naïve—but more that I questioned why no one had attempted it before. There had been Nazir, but that wasn't a real contract. I'd never been chased by Morag Tong in Morrowind, never hunted by the Brotherhood in Cyrodiil or the Summerset Isles. In a way, I had been more infamous directly after the engagement incident than I was now.

And on top of there, there was now an ex-Thalmor running around my Guild. Humph! As if there was any such thing as an _ex_-Thalmor. More likely, someone else had killed Elenwen, and the remaining operatives hacked off her head to further Ondolemar's story. Damned High Elves, think they're so bloody clever.

And then, there was the man whose pyre smoldered behind me. When I'd first come to Skyrim, Torvar had taught me how to hold my mead, crack a dirty joke, loosen up. Things that an older brother would have taught me, had the Divines blessed me with one. Shit, _Daedra. _Had the _Daedra _blessed me with one. Gods, I'd been hanging around men too long. I missed Morrowind, longed for Red Mountain's ever-watchful gaze and people who _understood. _Having Avalon around reminded me of the homeland, and how much I missed it. People were starting to rebuild it now, it wasn't so uninhabitable. And the Empire had bigger problems than a bunch of necromantic, Daedra-worshipping Dunmer. But I was a coward in my Clan; until I redeemed myself in their eyes, home was nowhere.

_Nowhere but the Cistern. _

So lost in thought was I, that I barely heard my family name called softly from across the way: "Morwyn?"

My gaze snapped over to the stairs. "Vilkas…?"

His tone was light, concern evident. "What are you doing up here, Harbinger? Couldn't sleep?"

"I might ask you the same thing… though yes."

"I couldn't either," he offered, claiming the spot beside me unbidden. Not that it mattered. No matter what I told him, he'd always come back. The thought twisted my insides painfully.

"What's keeping you awake?" he finally asked. "Your nightmares? Avalon? Torvar?"

"All three," I said, grateful to have such an easy way out, no matter how true it was. "And what keeps you here now?"

"The Call of the Blood," he replied quietly. "What were they of, this time?"

It took me a moment to realize he was referring to my nightmares. "Oh, um, the usual. Blood, hellfire, brimstone, dragons."

"So much fire in your dreams," he commented absentmindedly, his gaze trained skyward.

"Dunmer," I reminded dully, following his line of sight. "After Red Mountain, we all became Ashlanders."

"Ashlanders?" The word sounded strange in his Nord accent.

I sighed. "The people that traditionally lived on Vvardenfel, the volcanic island in the middle of Morrowind. Once it erupted…"

"You don't have to continue," he cut in gently.

We dissolved into silence for a while, but I couldn't take it. This was eating away at my insides. I needed to make a clean break. We'd argued about this once during the trip from Riften to Whiterun, when Farkas had been asleep, but we'd awoken the older Twin before we'd even started. Such was the fate of arguing with Vilkas Jergenson—screaming.

"I'm leaving in the morning, Vilkas," I said, and the words made eerily familiar echoes in my heart. "Don't try to stop me."

"No," he said, the word punctuating the silence with a vicious precision, "you're most _certainly _not. Not with the Dark Brotherhood after you now, plus the Thalmor, plus..."

"I wasn't asking your permission," I interrupted swiftly. "I've been here long enough."

"You can't _leave," _he protested, now turning to fully face me. "You've only just gotten here."

"I should never have come back," I said, shaking my head. "But Torvar deserved having me here."

"You're _safe _here," he said. "Why are you always in such a hurry to leave?"

I snorted at his old, unintentional mantra. "I'm not safe _anywhere! _I'm the thrice-damned _Dragonborn, _Vilkas!"

"I'd say you're safer here in Jorrvaskr than you are with a company of thieves," he instantly shot back.

My retort was out of my mouth before I could stop it: "Safer with _you _around, you mean."

"Yes, Soul-Shield" he said simply, sounding more like Farkas than himself in that moment. Then his expression softened. "Is staying with the Companions really such a burden?"

"It isn't the _Companions," _I scoffed. "Don't bring the institution into this. This is between you and me." His expression was one of confusion. "Every time I come back, every time I leave, I just cause you more pain. I won't do it anymore."

"It doesn't have to be this way," he murmured, mentally tracing constellations. The Serpent, I noted, was dominant that night—only the most blessed and the most cursed are born under its sign.

"Yes, it does." This conversation… Oh Azura, _not _this conversation! "And do you _seriously _want to talk about this right now?"

"You're the one who brought it up."

"Oh, _honestly…!_"

Silence.

"The offer still stands you know," he said, still not looking at me.

I shot him a look. "And the answer is still no."

The look Vilkas gave me—so full of pain and heartache, yet still with this tiny glimmer of hope—broke my heart. Just broke it. "Would it really be so awful, being married to me?" he asked quietly, only half expecting an answer.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek, the pain keeping me clear and focused. "Tell me, my friend—what is it you want out of life once you finally hang up your Wolf Armor and your Skyforged sword and go the route of Vignar? To settle down, maybe in Whiterun, maybe on a farm? To have a couple of ankle-biters, and impart Nord wisdom on the lot of them? And a wife, some pretty little thing, to keep your home, and warm your bed?"

Vilkas shrugged. "Isn't that what every Nord wants?"

"That is the _antithesis _of what I want out of life." I was still trying to make him understand, all these years later. "I am an _elf, _Vilkas. We're knowledge seekers, wanderers, magicians. Things you Nords have no use for." I sighed, the frost rising skyward, an offering to the Serpent to leave me be. Leave _us _be. "You know last time I was here, back when the Guild was out for my blood, Farkas asked me not to come back."

"_What?!" _Vilkas looked furious with his older brother.

"I was fully prepared to do it," I said over him, the volume rising without my intent. "I would keep myself busy in other parts of Tamriel, conduct business by letters, _anything _that would keep me out of Whiterun."

He was still mad. "_Why_ would Farkas ask you to do that? He considers you a sister!"

"He asked me to," I said carefully, annunciating every word, "on your behalf. He hates this, Vilkas, just as much as I do—if not more. If I had known it would end up this way, I wouldn't have…"

"_Don't _say it," he spat through clenched teeth.

I let out a frustrated breath. "What is it you want me to do, Vilkas?! Live a lie? I couldn't do that. Not again."

His head was in his hands. "And I would never ask you to. Morwyn, I…" he let out a frustrated growl of his own. "I don't know _what _the answer is."

"The answer is simple," I said, more gently than my usual tone. "What happened in Sovngarde was _supposed _to happen." I had told him and Farkas of the Fire of Mercy, and my conversation with Odahviing. "The result is just…" My turn for a sigh, and my head slammed into the forge behind me. "It's all my fault, I should have known better than to get involved when I could die at any moment…"

"Don't blame yourself." His objection was vehement. "It's no one's fault who you are, what I am. I just… wish it hadn't ended like it did."

Not my shining moment, that. Nor his. "I came back a void, a shell, you saw. You _knew."_

"And I was trying to put you back together again. You always seem to conveniently forget that part."

"You did your best, but it took a brand new _purpose _for me to feel like myself again."

"The Guild." It wasn't a question.

"The Guild," I confirmed.

"Brynjolf." Also not a question.

I glanced to the sky again. "Yeah, he helped. Also Tonilia, Vex, Cynric, Delvin, Brand-Shei…" I purposefully trailed off.

"Morwyn, you know that's not what I meant."

"Of course it wasn't," I snorted derisively. "When do you _ever _say what you mean?"

"Right _now_."

My oncoming retort was cut off by a kiss. My first instinct was to slap him, or punch him, or _something. _But, given that he's almost twice my size, attacking Vilkas does about as much good as spectacles on a Falmer. (Not that I hadn't done it my fair share of times in the past.) Besides, I didn't want to hurt him. Not any more than I already had.

So instead, I withdrew into myself. My spine was ramrod straight, my fists clenched at my sides. But being kissed by Vilkas was comfortable, familiar. Something I'd done a thousand times before. But what hadn't been there before were the emotions he now tried to keep strangled: rage, pain, heartache, Beast Blood, and despite it all, hope, and unselfish love. _The boy means it. _By the damned Nine, Mara must have been laughing her holy ass off at me. Alongside Azura and Sheogorath, of course.

He broke us apart a moment later, after he realized I wasn't going to kiss him back. He didn't release my face, and those silver-grey eyes of his were searching it, looking for something that he just wasn't going to find. "I love you, Morwyn," he said quietly, his voice ragged and worn. "Don't you know that?"

"Yes," I said quietly, unable to look him in the eye, "I know that. And I'm sorry, but it doesn't change a damn thing."

He sighed, and still, he didn't move away from me. "I know." The saddest statement I'd ever heard uttered, right there. "But I made a promise that I'd stand by your side until the Divines took either of us. Whether or not you reciprocate is freakin' irrelevant."

I drew in a steadying breath, my own head going into my hands, forcibly breaking his hold on me. "I'm sorry we had the misfortune to fall in love, Vilkas. Truly, I am. But _I can't make you happy. _Why don't you understand that?"

That shut him up, at least for the several minutes he spent coming up with a rebuttal. "So you _do _love me."

"Not in the way you're hoping," I warned instantly. "You're still a good friend of mine, Vilkas. And I have tried to keep it that way. But I can't keep arguing this in circles."

"I can't either…" His brow furrowed. "Can I ask you something?"

I sighed. "So long as it has nothing to do with a certain amulet, go for it."

"Brynjolf… do you love him?"

_Not _the question I'd been expecting. Not by a long shot. And that night, under the firmament, my breath coming out in foggy clouds, and my heart full to bursting with worry, and anger, and fear, I realized something important. Something I'd known, maybe all along, just hadn't noticed. Not necessarily took for granted, just didn't notice. As aggravating as he was, as furious as he made me sometimes, as much as I wanted to deny it:

"Yes." My voice, for once in living memory, was soft.

His snort was derisive, and I could smell his wolf growing stronger.

"Oh, go die!" I barked. I don't appreciate having my life-changing epiphanies scoffed at.

He rose in one fluid, lupine movement and growled "You _first_." before pounding down the stairs, no doubt on his way to the Underforge. Our usual parting shots.

I glanced up to the firmament. "Happy now?" I asked whatever was listening.

There was no response except the cold late winter wind and the crackling of dying flames.


	58. Speaking With Silence

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**-)**

True to form, Mercer met me right outside Windhelm, just past the stables—exactly as he said he would. I had snuck into town the night before, changing out of my Guild leathers and into my customary Daedric Armor. I knew I was going into battle; I prepared myself accordingly. The result left a curious duality to this job—was it true Guild justice or just another day in the life of the Dragonborn? Mercer had told me about Karliah before we left: her preferred tactics, her strengths and weaknesses, her go-to methods of taking out opponents. She was a traditional Elven archer, hardly could fault her for that. She was a gifted alchemist and sneak, never once had been caught mid-heist. A shame, really, that her avarice overtook her common sense.

But that wasn't the story I'd heard from Brynjolf, and I was struggling to decide which to believe. Mercer's had gaps so large you could drive a cart through them, but Bryn's was mostly based on guesswork and gut instinct. In the end, I suppose it didn't matter which side I believed. The Guildmaster wanted her dead; we'd oblige. Oi, I was beginning to understand what assassins felt like. A curious feeling for one with a Brotherhood contract on her head.

Mercer and I didn't talk much for most of the trip north. We're both the sort that tend to keep their own council anyway, and regardless, I didn't feel much like talking. I had so many things to worry about; Mercer's silence hardly bothered me. He did, however, comment sometime in mid-afternoon about the obvious:

"You seem on edge."

I glanced up from the snow, finding the Guildmaster hadn't stopped walking as he'd thrown the observation over his shoulder. "I've got a lot on my mind," was all I said.

"Obviously," the Guildmaster snorted, then he paused. "It's that Companion, isn't it? Vilkas, I believe his name was…?"

"I'm not going to talk about Vilkas with you, Mercer." The very idea was nauseating.

"Did I say I wanted you to?" he shot back. Oh good, Mercer was on the same page. "I only ask because if your head's not on straight, I'm not taking you down there."

"I'll be fine, Guildmaster. Really. You worry too much."

His smirk was more sad than smug. "That's why I'm still alive, Ty."

Snow-Veil Sanctum turned out to be an underground barrow, not ostentatious and aboveground like Bleak Falls Barrow or the Labyrinthian. The aboveground portion was little more than a raised dome, with a set of stairs leading down the side to a metal door with slithering cog-like locking mechanisms. Traditional, Nordic, bland. So far, this infamous ruin had not impressed me.

Karliah had clearly set up camp outside—there was a still-warm firepit and a horse tied up to a nearby tree—but the woman herself was nowhere to be found. Figuring she was in the ruin, Mercer put her horse out of its misery and we continued down the stairs and into cylindrical depression that led to the barrow. Mercer stopped me just before the door, scrutinizing the locks. "You know, they say these Ancient Nord burial mounds are sometimes impenetrable," he griped, hunching over the locks so that I couldn't see what he was doing. "This one doesn't look too difficult… quite simple, really. I don't know what all the fuss is about. All it takes is a bit of know-how and a lot of skill to pick them…" The slithering cog locks began to untangle, leaving the door wide open.

He stopped me then, clearly mulling something over in his head. "Tiberia," he finally said, "I want you to go first."

My brow furrowed. "You want _me _to lead?'

"Oh, _I'm _sorry, I was under the impression that I was in charge here. Yes, Dragonborn! You first."

"If you say so, Mercer." I drew my swords and pushed open the iron door and into the crypt beyond.

"This place smells of death," the Guildmaster commented as soon as the door shut. "Be on your guard."

"And you as well, Mercer."

Snow-Veil Sanctum, like all crypts, smelled of rotting draugr and stale air. Torches were lit every few feet, and open urns were strewn across the ground as though overturned in search of something. Twisting tunnels opened into caverns, which lead to more tunnels, more coffin-pits full of draugr. And worst of all, bone-chimes hung from many of the archways and ceilings, ready to call on more draugr should we be dumb enough to bump into one. By the Nine, I absolutely _loathe_ draugr. Not because they're too terribly difficult to kill (save Dragon Priests), but because the little bastards jump out at you in the dark, underground. Have I mentioned I hate being underground? I think I have…

The first cavern we came to was the traditional, circular, stone altar-type deal, complete with burial urns, offerings, embalming tools, and _vicious freakin' draugr. _They snuck up on me the first time, what with my mind in twelve places, but Mercer's battle-taunts ("I'll spit on your corpse!" and "You've just written your own epitaph!" were definitely tied for my favorite) brought me sharply back to Nirn before some rotting Nord got in a lucky shot. We made short work of the walking dead, Mercer Frey and I. With two such vicious swordsmen, how could we not?

We continued through the ruins no worse for wear after that episode, although we were a tad disgruntled to find that Karliah had either snuck around all the traps, or reset them. Mercer suspected it was a combination of both. We looped our way around the catacombs, cutting down any walking dead in our path. "Dragonborn, you speak their language, don't you?" Mercer asked offhandedly as he stabbed a restless draugr straight through its rotting ribcage.

"Aye," I said, blasting a Draugr Scourge into Oblivion with a dualcasted fireball. I stopped a moment to catch my breath. "They speak Draconic. Why do you ask?"

Mercer shrugged and somehow managed to take his foe's head off at the same time. "Always been curious."

I shrugged, cancelling my spells in the absence of enemies. "Most of it is just battle taunts—join the dead; Sovngarde awaits, that sort of thing. But some of them are apologizing—eternal sorrow, they say. _Krosis. _I'm sorry."

That struck Mercer; I could see it in his eyes. "They're… _apologizing?"_

We ducked under a recently opened-grate and down into a tunnel leading deeper into the bowels of the land. "Draugr _are _cursed, you know," I reminded him in a voice loud enough to be heard but quiet enough not to wake anything up unnecessarily. "They chose to serve the Dragon Priests in life, and so they are cursed to continue their servitude in death."

"Harsh," Mercer commented as we reached an mid-sized room full of bone chimes and Draugr sleeping in open coffins.

I put an arm out to stop him. "That's what happens when you make deals with Akatosh." I glanced about the room. "Want me to take those out, or sneak through?"

"Whichever is easier."

He and I quickly dispatched them all, then paused to pass back and forth a restore health potion that looked like it had been left there a while (that's the beauty of alchemy—potions never really go bad, the taste just goes downhill the longer it sits on a shelf). A few more twisting tunnels later and we found the toughest room yet.

No fewer than six Draugr Scourges burst from their coffins, one even summoning a Frost Atronach, and a Draugr Overlord came running into the cavern out of seemingly nowhere. "Does _everything _in this ruin need a gods-damned epithet!?" I cursed.

Mercer and I were hard-pressed for a while there, even though I don't think our blades stopped moving and I _know _I never stopped blasting fireballs into the knot of Draugr advancing and shouting at us. (That the worst thing—they shout like I do, just not as powerfully. I shudder to think of what might have happened to me had I been born in their time.) It felt like hours that I combated the things, hacking and slashing and thrusting and parrying. Finally I turned around, swords raised in the ready position to attack the next foe, only to find that the only moving thing in the room was Mercer. I immediately set off for the stairs, but found myself stopped by the Guildmaster's unsteady arm.

"Hold on a moment, would you?" he huffed. "Some of us aren't so young anymore."

I sheathed my blades and leaned against the wall near the stairs, taking a good long look at my Guildmaster. Funny—in the back of my mind, I knew that Mercer was getting old, knew that he'd been at this business longer than I'd been alive, but he didn't seem that way. His hair was graying, his body decaying, and yet he seemed as young and astute as he'd ever been. What was his secret, I wondered?

"You're distracted," Mercer commented from his vantage point on the stairs.

I sighed. "You already know why."

"Alright look, elfling," he said in a no-nonsense manner. "I don't know what went down between you and Vilkas, and frankly, I don't want to. But let me give you a bit of advice _my _first Guildmaster gave me." He drew in a breath, and counted each part off on his fingers to help himself remember. "'Mercer Frey,' he said, 'you can fix objects, you can fix elections, and you can fix dinner—you can't fix people. You can regret situations, you can regret outcomes, you can regret stupid decisions that you've made—you can't regret people. You can change your clothes, you can change sides, and you can change your mind as often as you like—you can't change people. So don't try, and don't regret what once made you happy.'"

Wise words, but I that's when I realized something. "Did Gallus tell you that?"

"Aye." The old Guildmaster nodded. "I owed a lot to that man. Still do."

"Guildmaster," I said, choosing my words carefully, "was that in reference to Karliah?"

Mercer instantly shot to his feet. "Let's keep moving, elf." But his eyes were on the brink of giving something away.

"For what it's worth," I said as we began to hike up the stairs, "we Morwyns say, 'better to have loved and lost than to be stuck with the bastard.'"

Mercer let out a short, barking laugh—he _actually _laughed!—and said, "Your family's got the right of it."

Some more tunnels, a stolen model ship that Delvin had apparently been after ("Did he ever reimburse you for the decanter and the bee statue?" "Oh, is _that _where those went?" "…I'll take that as a no, then."), and we reached a cavern with the familiar chanting that always heralded a Word Wall. _Shit. _"Please tell me you hear that," I mumbled, not daring to hope for so much.

Mercer's brow furrowed. "Hear what?"

Beautiful.

We dispatched more draugr and made our way around the stone battlement in the middle of the room to a smooth half circle of granite set into the far wall. Draconic words were engraved upon it, and one was calling out to me, whispering and slithering into my subconscious. I stepped forward, almost without thought, and pressed my fingers to the glowing word. The knowledge leapt at the chance for release, sinking deep into my blood and temporarily blinding me. _Viik—_the word sang to me_—defeat. _It fit together perfectly with two words I already knew—_zun _and _haal, _weapon and hand. I realized that all three together created the complete Disarm shout.

I threw back my head, and barked, "_ZUN HAAL VIIK!" _The Thu'um boomed outwards, relieving part of the build-up in my soul.

When I re-met his gaze, Mercer was watching me with one eyebrow in his hairline. "You just… _absorbed _that, didn't you?"

"Word Wall," I offered sheepishly, rapping my knuckles against the granite. "Old Dragon magic, don't worry too much about it."

Mercer was shaking his head as we ascending the stairs up the battlement in the middle of the room, muttering something about "Never have I _ever…"_

After what seemed like hours, we finally reached the Hall of Stories that heralds every final burial chamber. "_Wonderful," _I growled as we reached the end. "Karliah's done away with the claw."

"A puzzle door," Mercer smirked. "How quaint." Four concentric circles could be turned, each with a different rune except the middle one, which held the slots for a dragon claw made of some material like crystal, ebony, or glass. Not difficult with the claw—impossible without it.

I didn't know _why _he was so calm about this. "We can't get through without the claw, Mercer."

"See now, that's where you're wrong, Tiberia." He waggled a finger near my face good-naturedly as he passed, crouching over the center of the circular puzzle. "These things have a weakness—if you know how to exploit it. Quite simple, really."

And just like that, he leapt away from the door as the outer rune circles began to turn and the door began to sink into the ground. "How did you…!?" I spluttered.

"Karliah's close, I can feel it," he interrupted. "Let's get moving. And by the way…" He turned to look at me. "…It's good to know not every swordsman in Skyrim is bloody terrible."

I laughed. "You know, I was thinking the same thing.

I drew upon my magicka this time, wanting range instead of power, and stepped over the still-shrinking door and into the large amphitheatre-style room beyond. Large sets of steps led up to twin coffins on the top of the…

"_Shit!" _I hissed when the arrow collided with the chink in my armor, between my neck and shoulder blade. I feel to my knees, feeling the paralytic poison sink its claws deep into my blood. My brain was going fuzzy, but I still could hear the conversation going on around me.

"_SHIT!"_ barked a soft-spoken, heavily accented voice from the shadows. "Were you trying to be _ironic!? _Bringing a _Dunmer _here?"

"I was _trying _to bring you down. That's the Dragonborn, _halfwit."_

The dust cleared, revealing one figure with a bowstring fully drawn, arrow nocked and ready, and another, larger figure, blade drawn and dagger out.

"Do you honestly think your arrow will reach me before my blade finds your heart?" Mercer asked in that arrogant way of his.

"Give me a reason not to try," said the soft, Morrowind-accented voice again, thick with menace.

"You were always the clever one, Karliah," Mercer admitted, shrugging his shoulders without lowering his blade. "You'll figure something out. And you know, buying Goldenglow, funding Honningbrew… that was _inspired_, Indigo."

"'To ensure an enemy's defeat, you must first undermine his allies.'" She was clearly quoting that. "First lesson, Old Man. Gallus' _first lesson _to us. Don't you remember?"

"You always were a quick study."

Something about the way he said that struck a chord in the recesses of my mind. "If I were quicker, Gallus would still be alive," she snapped. "How _could _you, Mercer? All that he'd done for you, all _I'd _done for you, all we promised, and _you _had to go and…"

"He had his wealth," Mercer interrupted angrily, "and he had _you._ For Talos' sake, all he had to do was look the other way."

"And _ignore _your complete disregard for your Nightingale oath?" Karliah sounded appalled. "_Ignore _your self-serving methods? _Ignore _your _blatant_ advances towards…"

"_Enough," _Mercer growled, sounding just like Vilkas had the other night. And suddenly, it all made _that _much more sense. Indigo and the Old Man had been more than just partners; they'd been lovers, once upon a time. But Karliah and Gallus had been smitten when the latter had died, so something had to have broken it off between her and the current Guildmaster. I wondered why it ended so badly, but realized I'm the _last _person to judge screwed up relationships. "It's time the two of you were reunited." He rosined up his blade. "Eyes front, Indigo; let's go."

"I'm no fool, Old Man," Karliah murmured. "Crossing blades with you would be a death sentence." I watched her silhouette drink deep of a bottle, and then disappear instantly, inherently invisible. "But I can assure you—the next time we meet, it will be your _undoing."_

Mercer whipped around, listening for footsteps, breathing, _anything. _But all he heard was my ragged breathing. In fact, it intrigued him so much, he padded over, and dropped to a crouch to look me in the eyes. "Now isn't that interesting," he muttered. "Gallus' history repeating itself. Looks like Karliah finally did something right—providing me with the means to be rid of _you."_ His hand went searching for the clasp holding my chestplate together."You're just like Raynor Ceylonson—a bit too curious, a bit too clever, a bit too violent for your own good—you know that?" He smirked. "How's it feel, little elfling, to be interred with your _Nord_ ancestors for all eternity? To know you'll never see Red Mountain again? To know your Ancestors will forsake you, unburned and bloodied as you are? …Ah, there it is." He unlatched the deadric-forged ebony, exposing my ribs to the cold air, and worse—his bloodthirsty blade. "You know what intrigues me the most, though? This was all possible because of you, Tiberia. But it looks like I'll be putting Ulfric Stormcloak out of his misery."

He drew his Dwarven sword once more, his battle stance never seeming more terrifying as it had in that moment. "Farewell, Dragonborn." He slammed his blade into the opening he'd created in my armor, and the enchantment on his sword—the one _I'd _forged for him—only magnified the pain. "I'll be sure to give Brynjolf your regards." And with that, he yanked the Dwarven blade out of my side and disappeared from my line of sight.

I couldn't think in that moment, I was filled to the brim with blind fury. At Mercer, at myself, and at all the things I'd never said to the people that truly mattered (Avalon—I forgive you. Vilkas—I don't regret it; I regret what became of it. Neva—I absolutely _loathe_ you. Brynjolf—I love you). I faded to black as my life's crimson soaked the ground—stark and scarlet, just like my armor—but I would go to meet my Ancestors with my head held high and my eyes completely dry, just as every Morwyn should.


	59. Family Tradition

**Hey all, have a chapter, eh? Happy weekend! And once again, thanks to everyone who gives this thing a chance, and their thoughts :)**

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**Lyriel: I so agree. I loved having Mercer as a follower until he stabbed me…**

**-)**

Consciousness slammed into me with the force of a raging Cliff Racer. My ribs burned, the junction of my neck and shoulder ached, and I felt distinctly nauseous. I could feel the solid weight of my armor, unbuckled over the one side, and the solid, forged ebony was a comfort. I cracked my eyes open, just a slit, and was immediately blinded by whiteness, whiteness everywhere. _Crypts aren't white…_ The wayward thought on my stream of consciousness brought me to attention. I sprang to my feet, ignoring the aching in my head and my body crying out in pain, my hand scrabbling for swords that weren't there.

"Easy, easy!" called an accented voice. "Don't get up so quickly!"

I blinked in the weak, glinting moonlight, and found myself staring down a set of indigo irises in a Dunmeri face. The woman was slight—even more so than me—and the large, ornate black bow on her back seemed as though it would snap her in half the first time she tried to draw it. She was dressed in a sort of cobbled-together form of the Thieves Guild armor—traditional brown leather, but the straps across her chest were black, and she wore shoes instead of boots. Her hood was pulled up and over her head to protect her from the cold, and her bracers were less like mine, the traditional kind, and more like archery arm guards. The voice, I recognized. The accent, characteristic of Mournhold. This was Karliah. Had to be.

"You _shot _me!" I accused, my tongue thick and heavy.

"I saved your life," she argued in a maddeningly soft voice. _Speak up! _I wanted to say. "If I had intended to kill you, I can assure you we wouldn't be having this conversation."

I was in too much pain to argue. My hands flew to my aching ribs, which I then discovered had been bandaged by a practiced, if not professional, hand. "I should have bled out," I grimaced.

"Yes, well." Karliah balanced uneasily back and forth upon her toes. "It was, I suppose, a happy accident that the arrow that hit you was intended for Mercer Frey. I had spent a full year perfecting a unique paralytic poison, and by the end I had enough for but a single arrow." She shrugged. "The paralysis slowed your heart, kept you from spending all your lifeblood in one go, no?"

"Happy accident, indeed," I commented.

"Mmm." Karliah nodded, then cocked her head. "Listen kinswoman, before I speak to you any further, I have to ask—are you with the Guild?'

"Aye, junior member."

Karliah looked relieved, then her brow furrowed. "Then why don't you wear the armor?"

I winced again in pain. "Cairn-diving means heavy armor."

She sighed. "Though I'm sure you know who I am, I shall introduce myself regardless." She lowered her head into a bow, traditional of the Great Houses. "I am Karliah, House and Great House Indoril. And you?"

Funny, I hadn't introduced myself since learning of my heritage. At least, not to a Dunmer in the traditional way. I bowed my head gently, returning the sign of respect. . "I am Tiberia, House Stormcloak, House Morwyn, Great House Redoran."

Karliah's jaw dropped—actually _dropped_—and she scrutinized my face twice as intently. "You are of House Morwyn?" I nodded. "Was your mother Acacia?"

My turn to be shocked. "Aye…?"

Karliah's smile looked weak and severely underused. "I don't believe it… you're her youngest? What I am saying; of _course _you're the youngest if you've got more than one House! I don't… I don't _believe _it…" She sounded almost… _excited_. "Oh, the Lady Nocturnal _must_ be smiling down on me… or Sheogorath, I suppose, given your dedication. I just…"

"How," I interrupted in a tone that left no room for argument, "do _you_ know about that?"

"Your mother, the Lady Acacia, is a cousin of mine—we're both of House Indoril." Karliah paused. "How is she?"

"Dead almost ten years now," I told her, too wounded to care about softening blows, and Karliah's face fell back to its former, grim position. "But… how on _Nirn _do you…?"

"Know of you?" she interrupted, and I nodded. Karliah sighed. "Acacia came to me, pregnant with her third daughter, before she went back to Morrowind. She came to me and told me the story, and I remember saying, 'Dear Cousin, how_ do _you manage to get yourself into such messes?'

"So Acacia asked me, if the child looked more Nord than Dunmer, would I look after it? I told her of course I would, she's half Indoril whether she's Morwyn or not, but what if the reverse was true? Well then, Acacia told me, she and Amory would raise it as their own, no harm done. He would know of your true bloodline once you were out of the house."

My brow furrowed. "That's rather extensive planning for the bastard she grew to rather hate."

"The Acacia I knew could not hate blood of her own," Karliah replied swiftly. "She may hate your father, hate the reminder of her sins, but she would never hate _you." _She echoed Mercer's advice in that sentiment. Gods, had he _really_ given me older brotherly advice, fought alongside me, and then so coldly betrayed me? "And regardless, she would never have risked her spotless reputation by talking to a thief without some sort of impetus, no?"

At my nod, Karliah continued. "Well, I spoke with Gallus about it, because his reputation would be just as on the line as mine, and he, of course, agreed. Acacia kept me updated with news from Morrowind, about Neva and Avalon and Amory and their newest little member." Karliah chuckled blackly at some joke. "I faked a pregnancy because of you, little Tiberia. Pretended to miscarry when you came out looking like a Dunmer." My laugh was weak—it had to be, my ribs were angry.

She continued, "And Juri of Solitude had been pregnant not too long before; it wasn't so odd. Actually, I asked her and Ceylon if they'd be willing to look after you in the event that anything ever happened to me. They already had two little boys, dear Raynor and Brynjolf, a little sister wouldn't have raised too many eyebrows…" Karliah paused, suddenly realizing something. "By the Nine, those boys would be men, now."

To keep her from dwelling on it, I asked, all in a rush, "What would be the point of paralyzing Mercer?"

Her face fell into a flat, grim line. "Mercer must be brought before the Guild to answer for what he's done, pay for Gallus' _murder." _Her voice was a harsh whisper, less murmur-like than before.

"You do realize we'll be needing proof." I thought nothing of throwing in my lot with a kinswoman—especially if she was of House Indoril. "They're hardly going to believe our word against the Guildmaster's."

Karliah recognized the Clan support too, but didn't comment. "My purpose in using Snow-Veil Sanctum to ambush Mercer wasn't simply for irony's sake, Cousin. Before the two of you arrived, I recovered a journal from Gallus' remains—the information we need ought to be inside."

I made a circular motion with my hands. "Go on, what's it say?"

Another sigh in the form of a plume of white frost. "I wish I knew. It's written in some sort of language I've never seen before."

That was saying something, coming from a Dark Elf. We tend to speak at least three languages—I'm over the mark myself, as I speak Daedric, Dunmeris, the Common Tongue, plus Draconic. "You might not have, but surely _someone _Gallus knew has…?"

"Enthir… Of course!" Karliah smacked herself in the forehead.

I cocked an eyebrow at the name. "A mage from the College of Winterhold?"

She nodded. "He was a friend of Gallus'. The only outsider he trusted with knowledge of his Nightingale identity."

Nightingale… the word stirred up memories I couldn't quite pin down. Memories of things learned long ago, and subsequently filed off as unimportant and forgotten. "Nightingale, Nightingale…"

"There were three of us," Karliah offered up the information readily enough, "myself, Mercer, and Gallus. We were an anonymous splinter of the Riften Thieves Guild…"

Even _I _saw right through that one. "No you weren't."

Karliah's smile was wan. "Perhaps I'll tell you more about it later. Right now, we need to head to Winterhold and find Enthir, secure a translation."

"We?"

"Of course." Karliah nodded. "I laid Gallus' remains to rest; there's no reason for me to stay here. And you look like you'll be needing some help to get through the night anyway."

I shot her a look. "I'm not so weak I can't look after myself."

Karliah smiled wanly. "Just like a Morwyn. Well, we might as well change your bandages before heading off. Where is your Guild armor?"

"I couldn't agree more. And it's secure in my house in Windhelm."

"You have a house in _Windhelm…?"_

A few minutes later, Karliah had rags boiling over her cook fire and a small mortar and pestle, in which she was grinding up some wheat and blisterwort. It made a well-known health potion, and I knew she was using such obvious ingredients to show me she truly meant no harm.

"Tell me Tiberia," Karliah said before the silence settled too far, "how are your sisters?"

"Neva's a Thalmor," I said with quiet venom, "fought in the Great War, earned herself a rather lofty position in their hierarchy despite the fact that she's blue. She's consecrated to Boethiah still, never broke her vows. Also tried to impersonate me within the Guild, but Brynjolf saw right through that one."

"I'm sorry to hear about that." The woman shook her head. "But it's good to hear that Brynjolf inherited his mother's common sense—and not his father's lack of it."

I snorted. "And Avalon's… well, Avalon. After the Morag Tong disbanded, she joined the Dark Brotherhood. Has since been made Listener." Karliah let out a low whistle at that. "And earned them a contract on my head."

"You?" Karliah's brow furrowed. "Why on Nirn…?"

"I'm the Dragonborn," I said as I shrugged off my chestplate and began to reapply my bandages.

Karliah sighed again. "I think I've missed a few things…"

I laughed again, weakly, even though it hurt my ribs. "Karliah," I said, "you have _no _idea."


	60. Soul Gone Cold

**Oh hai there :3 have a chapter, eh? And thank you so much all ye readers, lurkers, and reviewers :) ya'll are amazing.**

**And the non-PM crew:**

**Lyriel: haha, perhaps you should look into an account on here :)**

**Oh., and this is Brynjolf. Now, onward.**

**-)**

"…And I do agree, they should be back by now," Vex was saying as we stood in the Flagon that fateful night, "but it's not a cause for undue alarm, Bryn. If Karliah's dead, what's there to run from?"

"The Dark Brotherhood, the Silver Hand, the Thalmor…" I ticked off Tiberia's enemies on my fingers. "…Ulfric Stormcloak, various and sundry Stormcloaks, the Vigilants of Stendarr, any sort of local authorities, Daedra who don't like Sheogorath or Azura…"

"Shut up, Brynjolf," Vex interrupted, swatting at my hands. "You worry too much."

"Not as much as 'is Mum," Delvin said in lieu of greeting, grabbing an open seat at our table.

Vex snorted. "There are times I'm so very thankful _not _to be a legacy member."

I pulled a face at the both of them and buried my nose in my tankard, but it wasn't enough to take _my _mind off things. The argument we'd had before she'd left was sitting like a knot in my stomach, making it hard to eat, to sleep, to just go about my business. I hadn't meant to make the comment about the Daedra—that one just slipped out. I should've known she'd be furious with me; her religion was something close to her heart. That baffled me, as I've never felt a particular pull towards the Divines (or any organized religion for that matter), but watching Ty made it seem like the most normal thing in the world. Slay dragons, steal from noblemen, crack sarcastic comments, summon Daedra.

"You're dwelling on it again." Vex's cold voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

I glanced up, unafraid to meet her gaze head-on. Delvin was watching with evident concern as well. And you know, I _still _couldn't figure out how these two were still together. "Dwelling on what?" I asked with a forcibly casual tone.

"Brynjolf, there's nothing you can do about the past," Delvin reminded me. "You can only fix your future."

"I'm sorry, I was under the impression I was sitting with my godsfather and a buddy, not Priests of Akatosh…?"

Some laughter. "But in seriousness, Brynjolf, you worry too much," Vex told me.

Time to chance the subject. "Have you two seen the new missive from the Thalmor?"

That sobered them right up. "Everyone has," Delvin remarked quietly.

They were littered all across Riften, akin to wanted posters or missing persons notices tacked up to the wall near the Keep. _A recent attack on the Thalmor embassy has resulted in the death of First Emissary, Elenwen, _Some bullshit about how this loss would "deeply affect each and every one of us." _The attack is believed to have been spearheaded by former Markarth Emissary, Ondolemar of Alinor. _An artist's sketch of the elf in question. _Any sightings or information are to be brought immediately to the attention of the new First Emissary of Skyrim, Neva Morwyn. _A small sketch of Tiberia's murderous eldest sister. _Until apprehended, Ondolemar is a danger to all of Skyrim—capture or kill, it makes no difference. _A few more details, and then the kicker: _Blessings of the Eight be upon you all. _I'd taken the liberty of drawing the hammer of Talos on every one of these things I could get my hands on.It was the first graffiti I'd done that guards actually _congratulated _me over.

"Especially Ondolemar," Vex said with a pointed look over her shoulder.

The Altmer sat hunched over the bar, a tankard of mead between his hands, his eyes staring unblinkingly into the fire. "I can hear you, you know," came his accent, so unlike Niruin's, so unlike Tiberia's, and yet still so very Elven.

"You were supposed to," Vex replied casually.

"This is exactly what I was worried about, exactly what I was afraid of," Ondolemar continued, still with that blank-eyed stare. His mind was somewhere else, even as his body sat in the Cistern. "Neva Morwyn is gaining power…"

"Tiberia will take care of her oldest sister," Delvin said firmly. "You can be sure of that."

Vex always drew the short stick, being the bearer of bad news. "Only if the middle one doesn't get to her first."

But Ondolemar shook his head, finally relinquishing that blank-eyed stare and leveling his alien gaze on the three of us. "They're Blood Bonded. Avalon would have a hell of a time trying to kill her Bond."

My brow furrowed. "How do you know that?" He hadn't been here for _that _conversation, and the sisters hadn't mentioned it since.

"It's obvious, and I know the family." Ondolemar shrugged. "Avalon wears a Daedric T proudly, and one doesn't bond frivolously. She isn't bound to Acacia, Amory, or Neva; in the Tong she only would have attempted one with Ravyn or Linnet; her husband's name was Mordred, and they had no children; and even if she bonded to someone in the Brotherhood, it only works between Elves and the only one in their employ is a woman by the name of Gabriella." Again, he shrugged. "Who else would it be, but Tiberia?"

Something clicked into place. "You spent so much time around the Morwyns _because_ of Avalon, didn't you lad?" I asked, full well knowing the answer.

By the way his face flushed, I knew I'd hit my mark. "It matters not," was all he said.

Vex and Delvin had a mark, though. "Did she know?" Vex asked as Delvin snickered, no doubt working something over that was bound to embarrass the High Elf.

"She was married; I mattered not," Ondolemar said firmly.

"What is it with Morywns and unrequited love?" Vex muttered, sounding peeved. Personally, I think she was just annoyed because she'd lost her status as Guild vixen. "First you have the one that was engaged to Tiberia and in love with Neva, then there's Vilkas of the Companions, and now you. That's all the sisters."

Ondolemar snorted, and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial level, "If you believe the legends told about their House, it is a curse from Almalexia to the family of the Nerevarine. If you don't—gods, have you _met _the three of them?!" He snorted. "They are what my older brother referred to as beautifully _dangerous."_

_A perfect description for Tiberia… _"Avalon's been a widow for more than a decade," Delvin pointed out, jerking me out of my train of thought.  
Ondolemar was saved from answering by a sudden influx of swearing from the general direction of the Ratway. Curses flew at everything from Karliah to Lady Luck to Snow to Dark Elves in general. No one needed to be told who was at the door; we knew the Guildmaster had returned.

"Mercer!" Vex, Delvin, and I practically called out in unison, fully ready to spring into action.

Our Guildmaster came around the corner with a distinct limp in his step and multiple contusions across his face and jawline that disappeared under his cuirass. His armor was frayed in places, a clear indication that he had been stabbed and/or shot multiple times, and dried blood was matted in his hair. His breathing was heavy and labored, and blood and gore had dried on his sword and across his armor. In short, he looked like Oblivion. And if Mercer Frey was so endangered that he didn't have time to clean his weapons, things were bad. So very, very bad. But he was well enough to curse Karliah's forefathers and _their _fathers on top of that; I took that as a good sign. Regardless, I took no chances.

"Vex, get Ingun!" I called, instantly dropping into my role as Second-in-Command. She sprang to her feet, already running towards the Cistern. "Vekel, bandages!" The barkeep ran sprawling towards his and Tonilia's living quarters. "Ondolemar, get Niruin!" Closest thing we had to a magical expert on hand. "Delvin! Help me!"

Delvin was at his side in an instant, easing Mercer's arm over his shoulder to keep the man from falling over. "Mercer, bloody hell man, what happened out there?"

I glanced around, feeling my heart constrict when I noted a glaring absence. "Where's Tiberia?"

We eased Mercer into a chair just as Vekel came back with the bandages and a bowl of steaming water. Mercer scrabbled wordlessly at the clasps holding his cuirass shut, and the leather fell away to reveal a patchwork of contusions and lacerations, some weeping blood, some oozing pus, and still others looking as though he'd attempted to stitch them shut himself. "Mercer!" I barked, trying to get him back to this plane.

His eyes were far-seeing, lost in a haze—of what, nightmares, memories? "History repeating itself," he murmured. "So much blood…"

"Guildmaster…?" Vex trailed off, reappearing with Ingun at her shoulder. The Black-Briar immediately began taking stock of Mercer's injuries, and listing off ingredients she'd need to heal him fully. Delvin was keeping track of it; I had other things on my mind.

"Mercer," I said, slowly, clearly, leaving no room for argument. "What. Happened?"

He blinked once, twice, thrice, and his eyes refocused. "Vekel, get the lad a tankard!" he barked, sounding more like his old self. "You're going to have a hell of a time of this, Brynjolf."

I folded my arms across my sternum, exhausted with reminding Mercer and Delvin that I now stood taller than both of them. "I'm not a child, Mercer Frey. Haven't been one in years. Now tell us what's got you so spooked, or _so help me…!"_

"Peace, Bryn," Delvin warned.

Mercer let out a sigh, suddenly seeming so very old and frail. "Tiberia and I fought our way through Snow-Veil Sanctum easily enough. Draugr were no match for our Dragonborn. How was I to know…?" His voice broke as he said the last word. "There was a wall, transcribed with the Dragons' Tongue down there—ever seen her absorb their power? It's… _unearthly. _Almost terrifying."Mercer squeezed his eyes shut, as though that would ward off the memory. "And when we reached the Hall of Stories, there was a puzzle door. She had found the claw earlier, unlocked the door herself, and therefore was the first to go through…" He drew in a sharp breath. "Karliah was waiting on the other side; bow drawn, arrow nocked and poisoned…"

My eyes widened fractionally, my heart skipped several beats altogether. "No…"

Mercer nodded, and I realized then that the whole room had gone silent. "The arrow… the jugular… so much blood, such a fast-acting poison…" His eyes refocused once more, this time on me. "I'm so sorry, Brynjolf, but Tiberia died in those ruins."

Eleven thirteen pm, the Twenty-Third of Sun's Height, Fourth Era, Year Two-Hundred and One. I will never forget that moment, when my soul just went cold.

It took me a moment to realize that the entire Flagon was watching me, waiting for my (explosive) reaction. _Keep it together, Brynjolf. _"And how did you get this injured?" I asked curtly, biting the inside of my cheek to hold myself together through pain.

"I went after Karliah after that," Mercer replied. "Damnable woman led me on a merry chase through the back passage of the ruin and down a cliff and halfway across Eastmarch before giving me the slip by jumping in the White River. By that time, I was in no condition to follow—or double back."

"And so Gallus' history repeats itself," Delvin surmised, "and Tiberia lies in Snow-Veil Sanctum as a testament to the cowardice of her Guild."

"You _dare _call me a coward?" Mercer growled.

"He's certainly not calling you brave," Vex commented flatly. "What kind of a man lets the _woman_ lead into a war zone?"

Mercer's retort was sharp, but no less accurate. "What kind of idiot argues with Tiberia?"

The knot in my stomach tightened as Ondolemar commented, "Isn't that _just _like a Morwyn?"

I was going to kill that man. "So Karliah's on the loose?"

Mercer nodded. "Aye, lad. I'm so sorry…" I stayed another few minutes to keep up the façade, but slipped out once Ingun began actually treating the Guildamaster. Though not before introducing Ondolemar's gut to my knuckles.

_She can't be gone. _I would feel it, surely. A hole where something once was, a void where none should be… something? I passed by her bed, the first on the right after entering the Cistern by means of the Flagon. How many times had I walked in here just like this, late(r) at night, and found her knee-deep in a nightmare? Too many to count. How many times had I sat with her and listened to the horrific images Vaermina plagued her with? Too many more. Sometimes I'm pretty sure she didn't even know I was there, but I was. Always.

And there, the Alchemy table, where she spent most of her time when Avalon had been here. The two sisters were thick as thieves, trading stories and secrets back and forth in Daedric and Dunmeris. So many languages, my lass knew, and how she kept them straight had always been beyond me. The questioning glances of my Guildmates followed me up and out of the Cistern, but no one dared speak with me. Sometimes having a rather short temper proved useful.

I left the city, finding my way to the lakefront, and collapsing onto a ledge overlooking the water. Masser and Secunda stared down at me, both full that night, and the Thief and Warrior battled for dominance in the sky—just as they had, Tiberia had once told me, the night she was born. If I closed my eyes, I could only remember that blasted argument—the fire in her eyes, the venom in her voice, the frustration and fury in mine. Akatosh only knows how I could push that from my mind, even for the moment, but I managed. Akatosh, the one who had blessed her with Dragon Blood—what had she called it…? _Dovahsos. _

I realized, I knew her face almost as well as my own. The crimson, elven eyes, so often burning with righteous fury; the skin a delicate shade of blue, the only delicate thing about her; the strong, Nordic contour lines, so familiar in such an alien face; that grin of hers that told a man she was plotting some sweet revenge; the lips, so often pulled back in a battle-snarl, but perfectly happy being kissed anyway. I already missed her.

Would I never hear her laugh again, make her smile? Would she never burst into the Cistern again, singing the Song of the Dragonborn under her breath, looking for me after a job? Would I never hold her in my arms again, sit under the stars like this, talk about nothing and everything? _No_, said the honest voice in the back of my head. _No, Brynjolf, stop deluding yourself. She's gone, lad. Gone to wherever it is Elves go when they die…_

Was she in Sonvgarde, for the Nord? The Shivering Isles, for her dedication to Sheogorath? Moonshadow, for her dedication to Azura? The Planes of Aetherius for her magicka? The Hunting Grounds for her Beast Blood? The Void, for Sithis? Or somewhere else entirely? Oh, that was right. The Guildmaster had _left her to sleep with the Draugr in Snow-Veil._

"Bryn…?" came a voice, accented and familiar.

"Delvin." But not the right accent. I half-turned to face him. "What is it?"

He made no move at all. "I would figure you'd be in Bee and Barb by now, or at least the Flagon."

"If I start drinking now," I said quietly, "I don't think I'll ever stop."

"I don't think this quite qualifies," said the aging Breton, pressing a mug into my hand and claiming the spot beside me.

I peered down to its contents and couldn't help but smirk, even just a little. Delvin Mallory, Senior Member of the Riften Thieves Guild, making hot cocoa. A ridiculous mental image. "I'm not twelve anymore, Delvin," I said, pointedly tapping the side of the mug.

"Well, if you don't want it…"

"I never said that." Pointedly, I took a draught from it, and had the same thought as ever—_why _hadn't Delvin become a cook instead of a thief?

Delvin smirked and took a drink from his own mug. I was knocked back to a time when this had been the norm. Back when Raynor and I had first come to Riften, just after our parents died. Being a child was so simple, a bit of sugar and a listening ear could soothe almost any problem. Life wasn't so easy anymore. "I wish I knew what to say to you, Bryn," my godsfather said quietly.

I let out a sigh, the frost dissipating into the heavens. "I can't believe she's gone." I stared into the mug, as though the sloshing liquid within held the meaning of life. "I knew something wasn't right before she left, and I couldn't…"

"You had no hope of persuading her; don't delude yourself." Delvin wasn't being mean, just accurate. "That woman never did anything unless it was of her own accord."

The knot in my stomach begged to differ with his opening statement, and right then, I knew what I had to do. "She's not going to sleep with the Draugr for eternity. I don't care if I have to tear up every cairn in Eastmarch—and you know I'd do it—I'm finding her." We'd burn the body Dunmeri-style, and I personally would see her returned to Morrowind. I owed her at least that much.

Delvin's smile was sad. "I expected no less from the son of Ceylon." He then unlatched the cloak from around his shoulders, revealing not only his armor, but also my war axes. "Take these. Go." He held the axes out to me, the gift he'd given me upon reaching manhood. "I'll distract the Guild long enough for you to slip away."

I suited up, asking, "Why?"

Delvin understood. He _always _understood. "Because I was a coward once; never again. We will _not _repeat the disrespect we showed Gallus." He reached into one of his many pockets and withdrew from it a map. "And you won't need to go tearing up every burial cairn—just this one." We stood as equals before parting ways—him back toward the city, me out to the wilderness.

Tiberia once told me that the Redoran value of duty referred to one's own honor, to one's family, and one's clan. My clan valued family, and the honor and duty carried out for and because of it. But family isn't always the blood you carry in your veins. Sometimes it's the people you carry in your heart.


	61. Hard Answers

**Hoo it has been a busy week in my world! I do apologize for the delay in postings, but that's what happens when chaos takes over your life and won't give it back, no matter how many times you say pretty please. Anywho, thank you to all my wonderful readers, lurkers, reviewers, subscribers, and favoriters (is that a word? It is now)! **

**Also, Thora Swordmaker isn't mine, but the Dragonborn of the lovely HereLies. I hope I've done her justice :) (and y'all should check out 'According to Plan.' It's awesome). **

**And the Non-PM crew:**

**Lyriel: The truth shall indeed be revealed! Painfully. **

**Aleidis: Aww, don't cry! Contrary to popular belief, I don't enjoy being the cause of tears! And you can get onto ff dot net at school? That's impressive. **

**-)**

As I stood just inside the city gates, I remembered exactly why I hated Markarth. The city was built in the ruins of an old Dwemer City, the major difference being that it was aboveground these days. However, given that it was a Dwemer city, it was built not out of urban sprawl, like Whiterun or Riften, but on carefully calculated levels. As with all Dwemer ruins, the doors were golden-bronze, the stonework solid and practically impenetrable, and the inhabitants decidedly… unfriendly. I cursed Gallus' cleverness for making this trip necessary in the first place.

See, Karliah and I had gone to Winterhold as soon as I could stand, at first setting off at a brisk pace as I filled her in on what she'd missed, and she in turn told me stories about her and my mother's childhood. However, we both soon realized we were on a time crunch, and so I decided to help things along a tad… bestially. With Karliah on the wolf's back, we made it to Winterhold in excellent time—except I think she nearly lost her breakfast multiple times.

Once there, we met with Enthir, who was known for dealing in rather… _shady, _shall we say, circles, and was more than happy to help out the Arch-Mage and her colleague—especially after he found out Gallus Desidenius had been involved. After lamenting the fact that Gallus was too clever for his own good, he informed me that the journal was written in Falmer, the language that had evolved out of the Snow Elves' tongue. No, he couldn't translate it, but yes, he knew someone who could help us out: Calcelmo, the Court Wizard in Markarth. However, given how paranoid the man was about his research, getting translation notes wasn't going to be easy. I knew Calcelmo—as a matter of fact, he was one of the few Altmer I could stand—and therefore knew that Enthir was right. There was no point in even asking his permission; I would just have to take the damn things.

Before I'd left, I'd asked Enthir, why Falmer? Because, he had replied, Gallus had been planning a heist that involved a deep understanding of their language. They'd never had a chance to chat before Gallus' untimely death. Karliah opted to get my Guild Armor from Hjerim while I stole the notes from Markarth, given that there was a less of a chance she'd stand out in Windhelm. Not to mention, with the Beast Form I could be across Skyrim and back by the time she made it down to Windhelm and back. Provided neither of us ran into any distractions, that is.

And so I sat in the Silver-Blood Inn with a tankard of weak ale, trying to formulate a plan. I could hardly just waltz into the Understone Keep, break into Calcelmo's Dwemer museum, and then his laboratory, steal research notes, and then be on my merry way _in broad daylight. _But waiting until nightfall meant more time wasted in this Skeever hole of a city. Freakin' Markarth…

Suddenly, I heard my family name called across the way: "Morwyn…?"

I whirled around to find the source of the noise, only to find a tall, blonde Nord woman (honestly, do they come any other way?) sizing me up over the rim of her tankard. She wore a full suit of Daedric Armor, minus the helmet, and a Daedric Greatsword was slung across her back. Her blonde hair was pulled away from her face, tied back without braids. I knew this woman; I had a lot of respect for her.

"Thora… Thora Swordmaker?" I blinked in recoil, certain that my mind was playing tricks on me.

She and I had served together as Stormcloaks for a number of years. Thora was older than me by a couple of years—enough that when she'd taken the poor Dunmer Stormcloak under her wing, she had become something of a cross between older sister and young aunt. Upon my ascension to the rank of General, we'd been reassigned to different units and lost touch, but I'd never forgotten the fierce Nord woman who showed me the ropes and judged me by my actions, not my skin color. Last I'd heard, she was working with a group of Freedom Fighters that were sticking it to the Thalmor, one fort at a time.

She smiled, and we clasped forearms, the warriors' way. "I heard you were dead, Morwyn," she said, her voice a low whisper. "The Dragonborn was supposedly killed off in some godsforsaken ruin…"

"Not dead," I said with a smirk. "The bastard who tried to kill me will be shortly, however."

Thora grinned, making her nickname—She Who Delights in Battle—seem _that _much more accurate. "Good to know you haven't lost your edge."

I snorted into my tankard. "Bitch, please."

Thora laughed and claimed the stool next to mine. "So what brings you to Markarth?" she asked by way of conversation.

My eyebrow immediately rose. "Business. I need to talk to people in the Understone Keep, but it's all blocked off…"

Thora nodded. "Aye, the Jarl is having the new First Emissary of Skyrim here tonight. Going to be a huge gala over there—Masquerade Ball the likes of which Skyrim has never seen."

My brow furrowed. "Who's the new First Emissary?"

"Woman by the name of Neva Morwyn."

I forcibly shot the mead I had just been drinking across the room via my nose. "_What?!"_

Thora's answer was careful. "What, you know her?"

"Know her!?" I was pressing my hand against my now-burning nose. "That's my batshit crazy eldest sister! Who the hell gave her power!?"

Thora's eyes widened. "Keep your voice down; this town is _crawling_ with Thalmor."

I forced myself to clam down, despite my wildly-beating heart. "Guess that explains why you're in town."

Thora nodded, but threw quick glances over either shoulder to make sure no one dangerous had heard me. "You know me so well, Morwyn… wait…" I saw gears turning in her head, piecing something together. "That's not your given name, is it?"

I carefully shook my head. "No, that's Tiberia." We sat in silence for a few moments, my mind carefully turning over every rock in my stream of consciousness, trying to come up with a plan. "I need to get into the Keep tonight. There's just no two ways about it."

"You won't be getting in without an invitation."

I shot her a look. "You doubt me?"

She snorted. "I wouldn't dare. Strategically speaking, though, you wouldn't be making life easy on yourself by trying to break in tonight…" A pause. "Actually, I have a friend on the inside… he might be able to get you a legitimate invitation. But even so, you'll be needing a costume…"

I paused, taking stock of my resources. My home here in Markarth was stocked enough that I could scrounge something together by tonight. Plus, even if what I came up with I couldn't buckle my swords over, I had a vial of the Tears of Azura and a hell of a lot of magicka at my disposal. "Two questions: is there a theme to this and how formal is it, and two, when's it start?"

"To the first, the theme is just to be terrifying and therefore not too terribly formal. As for the second, sundown, but I'm sure I don't need to tell elfish nobility when to arrive."

I couldn't help but laugh at that. "If you could wrangle me an invitation…"

Thora waved me off. "Consider it done. Payment for the favor I still owe you."

I'd forgotten about that one. "Then we're even."

She nodded. "Dead even." We returned to our drinks, and a silent exchange took place in the space of an instant. To throw any possible eavesdroppers off our scent, Thora added, "So Tiberia, is there a man in your life?"

"Mmm," I said, and I couldn't help but smile (and that's when I knew I had it bad…) but it was quickly wiped from my face when I realized, Mercer had probably gone back to Riften. Undoubtedly spread lies about what happened in Snow-Veil Sanctum, especially since I didn't come home with him. What lies was he spreading? Did he paint me as the aggressor, or the victim? Which would more fully credit him? He'd been fairly scratched up when we reached the Hall of Stories, but nothing that would suggest a battle so monumental that the mighty Dragonborn had perished. But then, he had Karliah as a lovely wild card. Anything was possible with that "murderess" on the loose. Either he would paint me as a conspirator or an accidental victim, I was sure of it. My bet was on the latter, since it would mean less work on his part. Karliah had killed a Guildsibling once—who was to say she wouldn't do it again?

"Morwyn?" Thora prompted. "Everything alright?"

"It will be," I said, as much to convince myself as Thora. "But what about you?"

Her smile answered before she did. "Aye." She held up her left hand and wiggled the third finger, when a gold band glinted in the dim firelight.

My eyebrow shot into my hairline. "Married now, eh?"

Thora couldn't disguise her grin. "Several years now, aye. Oh, don't act so surprised, Little Elf, your time is coming."

I snorted derisively. "You wish." Instantly, I switched topics. "So tell me about him."

"He's a Nord, a bit like your Vilkas, but blond and a Freedom Fighter with me, not quite so strung out on honor and duty and pride as the Companions…" She paused. "The look on your face tells me I said the wrong name, didn't I?"

I nodded, and a sigh escaped from the confines of my lungs. "Do not talk to me about Vilkas Jergenson…"

Thora's brow furrowed. "Something gone wrong with the Companions?"

Dimly, I realized she didn't know. "Thora, I'm in with the Thieves Guild now."

Her eyebrows rose. "So that's why you didn't mention your business in Markarth." I watched her hand absentmindedly travel towards the dagger in her boot.

Mine was already out. "Going to attempt an arrest, are we?"

Thora blinked, and realized what she was doing. "Of course not, Morwyn; put that away." I sheathed my dagger. "What do you take me for, an elf? Nords don't sell out battle-bonds like that… oh! No offense. I always forget you're a Dunmer."

"I'm half Nord," I offered up quietly.

Thora's expression lifted into shock. " So it's true, then, what they're saying about you on the streets. The Dragonborn is the daughter of Ulfric Stormcloak…"

"…And the Dunmeri Lady Acacia Morwyn," I finished with her.

Thora sat back, her tankard forgotten on the table in her surprise. "I can't believe it. All the hatred that feeds Ulfric's cause, and his daughter's one of the very races he tries to strangle." Then her countenance darkened. "No wonder he made you General and called you back to Windhelm. You were making a name for his rebellion—but not the one he wanted."

"Couldn't stand having a Dark Elf as the face of Skyrim's liberation, no," I agreed, having gone down this train of thought many a time. "And so under the guise of equality he called me back to Windhelm to serve on his personal council—which he never used. Galmar and I could argue all we wanted; Ulfric always did what _he _thought was best."

Another silence descended, this one less tense than the first. "So if not Vilkas, whom?" Thora finally asked.

I sighed. Couldn't let this one go, could she? "His name's Brynjolf. He's Second-in-Command of the Riften Guild." It then hit me like a sledgehammer to the gut—what had Mercer told Bryn? I didn't want to think about it. "Born and raised a Clansman of Falkreath Hold, put more honor into the Thieves Guild than I've seen in armies in a long time…"

Thora nodded. "From what I've heard of the rising Guild, I don't doubt it."

"Mmm." I scrutinized her face across the rim of my tankard. "What I do, I do for the Guild."

Thora was grinning again, which was never a good sign. "As far as earlier is concerned, your turn _is _coming, Little Elf. As much as you want to deny it."

I rolled my eyes. Oi! "I have a lying, murdering bastard to take care of first, not to mention a war to win and destiny to wrangle into this side of sense. "

"That's what family is for." Thora nudged me not-so-subtly. "Especially the one you make yourself."

"Oi!" I slammed a palm into my forehead. "You sound like Tonilia!"

"Newly married?" At my nod, Thora continued, "Good for her. But you, Tiberia Morwyn… I know exactly why you scoff at me."

I shot her a look. "Because I've been in an arranged marriage that was destined for Oblivion, seen my sister's go there, and have had to say no to the same man _thrice?"_

Thora shot me an equally dagger-like look. "Because you're scared, Dark Elf."

I snorted derisively. "You jest."

"You're scared," Thora continued, heedless of my interruptions, "because you think you're made for killing, for destroying. Not for loving, for creating. You've never seen what a real marriage looks like, only arrangements. Love has the same status as any other four-letter word."

That set me back. But I would never admit she was right. I had _way _too strong of a reputation.

-)

That night, I stood disguised outside the Understone Keep, going over the plan in my head. Thora had stopped by Vlindrel Hall earlier with an invitation and a word of warning regarding the guest list. A good woman, Thora Swordmaker. I wish her nothing but the best in life. She didn't want to risk going into a room full of Thalmor, not with their orders being kill on sight should they see her. Instead, Thora was taking my supplies, stashing them in the small mining community just outside town, and keeping a lookout for me, just in case.

The plan was simple enough: get in, charm Calcelmo's nephew Aicantar into bringing me into the Dwemer museum (possibly the laboratory itself), get him out of the way with the Tears of Azura, find Calcelmo's translation notes, get out. But there were oh-so-many variables, it was almost enough to make a Mer queasy. Not to mention, I wore the Armor of the Old Gods, a set of Forsworn armor their King in Rags, Madanach, had given to me after I'd helped him escape from Cidhna Mine (no one escapes, my ass). The fur and leather was no more revealing than Aela's standard armor, but I felt uncomfortable nonetheless. I need metal, chain mail, ebony—something solid to make sure a lucky strike wasn't going to go right through me. No such luck with this armor. If I got into a fight, I needed to be _fast. _The good news was, I was not the only "Forsworn" at this party, where everyone from Emperor Titus Mede II to Red Eagle was fair game. I would hardly stand out in my costume, even being a Dark Elf. No one ever needed to know my armor was the real deal. Or the swords, for that matter.

I got past the two Thalmor guarding the front double doors without trouble, and I offered a silent prayer to the Divines on Thora's behalf as I slid inside the Keep. I offered a simultaneous prayer to Lady Nocturnal for luck, because I knew I'd need it. A quick glance about the room beyond told me that mostly Thalmor and nobles populated the party. People so wrapped up in themselves, they'd never notice me slip away into the night.

I had been in the Understone Keep hundreds of times, despite my intense dislike of all things Markarth. One didn't become Harbinger of the Companions without learning how to deal with politicians, I suppose. The stark stone walls had been redecorated for the occasion— witchlights burned in alcoves, while banners in Reach green adorned the walls. All sorts of peopled milled about, mixing and mingling and just generally enjoying themselves, while servants bustled about the place serving overly-decadent treats. All of the Keep's usual inhabitants were trying to cozy up to the Thalmor, save the Silver-Bloods and Calcelmo and Aicantar (which made my job infinitely easier). I later learned that Calcelmo was as bit of a laughingstock in Alinor for his fascination with the Dwemer Culture. High Elves view them as heretics, much like they do us Dark Elves. Only difference is, Dwarves actually _were_ heretics. They abandoned the Daedra, preferring instead their gods of Reason and Logic, thinking they could make themselves into gods right alongside.

Back to the point, the Keep was crawling with people, and most would have been hostile towards the Dragonborn. Ironically, it was a mercy that most of Skyrim believed I was dead. It kept guards off my back and gave me anonymity. After all, the Dragonborn was a Dunmer known to favor dual swords and sharp retorts. If she was dead, any other Dunmer that even vaguely fit that description no longer put to scrutiny. It became not a cause for alarm, just mere coincidence. That, of course, was fine by me. I didn't need the scrutiny of every Thalmor in the place because I hadn't had the time to paint myself pink. Or gold.

I had never been a major schmoozer like Neva, or even just genuinely likable like Avalon (there was a reason the latter was still well-loved, even though she was an infamous assassin). I was always "the youngest sister," the "cursed one." But, that didn't mean I didn't learn a thing or two from having a mother who was a politician, a sister who was a Thalmor, and another sister who enjoyed walking outside in broad daylight. Though speaking of the schmoozer, I only saw Neva once that night, and at a mercifully large distance at that. She was reveling in her newfound power, basking in the glory of her triumph. Gods, I wanted to bash her skull in. _But now is not the time._

In the end, getting into Aicantar's good graces wasn't too terribly difficult. Personally, I think he was mostly just shocked someone wanted to hear _him _speak, and not his uncle. The fact that it was a pretty young Elf maiden was just a plus. Flirtatiously convincing him to show me around the Dwemer museum was almost _embarrassing_, it was so easy. I'm not sure how much of it was Altmeri Of-Course-I-Have-the-Upper-Hand Syndrome and how much was just plain drunkenness. Whatever it was, he readily agreed, and I followed him up the stairs like a good little conquest. Two guards kept watch by the door, though both readily stepped aside at the sight of their employer's nephew _with a girl. _Apparently, rumor around the Keep was that Aicantar didn't even _prefer_ women. I had to laugh at that when I learned of it later; the boy wasn't like that, he was just painfully shy. So, I'm pretty sure I was half detrimental to the man, and half empowering. A curious mixture.

I was beginning to get anxious by this time. Playing the role of provocative Dunmeri maiden was a necessary evil, but _Sheogorath's balls, _if I didn't get to kill something soon, I'd blow my own cover out of sheer embarrassment. There is a reason I'm so blunt—I hate manipulators. And yet look, what was I doing? _What you do, you do for the Guild. _I had to keep reminding myself of that. Mercer had to be brought down, and to do so, we needed to translate Falmer. Mundane, business thoughts.

I glanced back over to him at the wrong (or perhaps right) time, as we locked gazes. My wolf senses kicked in, and I could hear his heart thudding quickly in his chest, smell the anxiety coming off him in droves. He mumbled something I didn't catch, and next thing I knew, kissed me (rather inexpertly, might I add). _One… two… three. _I broke it apart, stepping swiftly out of his embrace as the Tears of Azura did its work and he froze. "Didn't your mother ever warn you not to go off with strange women?" I scoffed, the façade broken. With a sarcastic wink, I drew my swords and disappeared into the bowels of the Keep, into Calcelmo's living quarters.

Since Aicantar was a High Elf, I knew the Tears wouldn't give me a whole lot of paralysis time. And I knew he'd sound the alarm as soon as he came to, or, if that was too embarrassing, he'd come after me. And so I tore through Calcelmo's personal quarters, cutting down any guard I saw and leaving a trail of destruction in my wake a mile wide. I knew I was being careless, but speed was more important than subtlety here. I would sort out any backlask later, but right now, I needed to be in and out as fast as possible. Given that I'm a terrible sneak, that left one option.

I realized as I navigated the twists and turns of the place that the Understone Keep wasn't just built on top of a Dwemer ruin, it _was _the ruin. These quarters had every characteristic of the underground ones—stone beds, stupid twists and turns, gold plating, random valves, locked grates—except for the fact that they were inhabited. Guards patrolled intermittently throughout the lab and living quarters, and each was silenced by either ebony or spell, depending. I tore through bedrooms, living rooms, a kitchen, and a few side labs without success, and was beginning to become disheartened (though finding a Dwemer puzzle cube that Delvin had been going on about helped that). The random ransacking was getting me nowhere, and I was running out of time…

I pushed open yet another gold-plated door (seriously, I was beginning to hate the color by this point) and found myself on a balcony overlooking Markarth. Masser was full, Secunda half-full—it appeared as if the heavens were winking at me, mocking me for missing something. The question was: what? As I turned to go back inside, I caught a glimpse of another door up the way. Curious (and fed up with poring over the same four rooms twelve times over), I jogged up a flight of stairs, over to that door, and pushed it open.

I padded inside as quietly as I possibly could, and found myself underneath a ledge, upon which sat an enormous granite slab. Strange markings were etched into it, and I realized this must have been the stone Aicantar had been talking about earlier. His uncle had found it within the ruins, and was using it to translate Falmer. I hurried up the stairs on either side of the ledge, made my way through a workroom, and over to the slab. I stood before it, hands on my hips, trying to figure out a way to get these markings to Enthir. I could hardly lug this thing across Skyrim.

Then, it hit me. I tore back into the workroom, seized a piece of charcoal and a large roll of paper, and made a quick, careful rubbing of the etch marks. It would have to do; this was all there was. I laid another sheet of paper over the newly-made rubbing so I could fold it without smearing the charcoal, and was just tucking the paper into my boot when I overheard Aicantar's voice: "Things like this don't just _happen. _Someone is trying to sabotage my Uncle's work!"

_Shit, _I thought."Alright, alright," the captain of the guard was saying, "if there's a thief in this tower, she won't leave here alive. But… shouldn't we inform Master Calcelmo?"

"I'll deal with my uncle." Funny, Aicantar didn't seem nearly so timid now. "Just… go! Scour this place from top to bottom!"

I didn't give them the chance. I leapt from the ledge and slammed into the ground just before the array of large, Nord guards, and one embarrassed High Elven mage. "Evening, gentlemen," I greeted with a sarcastic tip of an imaginary hat before plunging my blades into the two guards nearest me.

The next one I felled in much the same way, but the captain of the guard had drawn a broadsword in the interim. A few parries later he went down, and then all that remained was Aicantar. "Go on, whore," the mage growled, lightning shimmering in his hands. "I _dare _you."

"Don't take it personally," I said with a shrug, and then slammed the hilt of my sword into his head. "My heart's taken, anyway."

I tore back out onto the balcony just as the alarm was raised that there was an intruder in the Understone Keep. I froze in place, the only time fear has ever overtaken me like that. I mentally slapped myself and got moving again. I couldn't go down through Calcelmo's laboratory again, not without Aicantar as a cover. I glanced about, and spied a large waterfall gushing past a small bridge. It would have to do. Checking my boot again to make sure the paper was securely wedged in an area that would remain dry, I made my way over to the bridge, and dove into the cascading water.

-)

When I reached Winterhold later that week, I was bruised, bloodied, and sore. The waterfall had slammed me into the pool below, and I had clambered out into the smelting/smithing district of Markarth. I had kept to the shadows on my way out, retrieved the knapsack of supplies from Thora, changed into the beast, and began pounding my way across Skyrim. I reached Winterhold in three and a half days—half the time it takes on horseback—and met with Enthir and Karliah in the basement of the Frozen Hearth Inn, as previously agreed.

"Back, eh?" Enthir, who I now realized was a High Elf, said, "How was our friend Calcelmo?"

I shot him a world-class dirty look and yanked the parchment out of my boot. I slammed it onto the table that was serving as an impromptu desk just behind him. "This better help; it's all he had."

Enthir sighed. "I suppose it would be _inappropriate _to ask you how you obtained this, so I simply won't." He padded over to his desk, and unfolded the parchment. As he did so, his eyebrows shot into his hairline. "A rubbing, eh? I was expecting notes."

I cut him off. "Don't even go there."

I filled Karliah in on the details as Enthir translated Gallus' journal and scratched out the translation onto a new, clean sheet of parchment. Karliah found the whole story hilarious, and had, by Meridia's mercy, not run into trouble in Windhelm. By the time Enthir was finished translating, I was back in Guild armor and itching to get to Riften.

"This is intriguing, but highly disturbing." Enthir had his hands splayed out on the table as he leaned on them, the same way Mercer always did over his desk. I didn't have time to ponder the irony. "It appears that Gallus had suspicions about Mercer's allegiance to the Guild for months, just didn't have the evidence to convict him. Mercer was spending a lot of gold on an 'unduly lavish lifestyle' and 'personal pleasures…'"

"Does the journal say where this wealth came from?" came Karliah's voice from somewhere on my left.

"Yes." Enthir shifted uncomfortably. "Gallus seems certain that Mercer had been removing funds from the Guild's treasury without anyone's knowledge."

"Does it say anything else, Enthir?" Karliah pressed. "Anything about… the Nightingales?"

He nodded. "The last few pages seem to describe the 'failure of the Nightingales' but it doesn't go into great detail. Gallus also repeatedly mentions his strong belief that Mercer desecrated something known as the Twilight Sepulcher…"

"Shadows preserve us." Karliah's voice was a harsh whisper. "So it's true." She cut off his oncoming stream of questions. "I'm sorry Enthir, I can't tell you what Mercer's truly done. But you've done the Guild a great service, and we shan't forget it. All that matters is that we get this translation to Riften immediately…"

Enthir nodded solemnly. "I understand, Karliah. You don't need to say a word." He turned to me, and his voice dropped an octave. "And Arch-Mage, the Guild respected Karliah. She deserves better than the life of an exile. Do whatever you can, and I'd consider it a personal favor."

Always good to have people indebted to you. "Consider it done. And thank you."

Karliah and I were out of the Inn a few minutes later, already on the way south to Riften. _Home… _"Karliah," I said, "what was that about a 'Twilight Sepulcher?' It sounds so familiar…"

"No point in concealing it from a Daedra Worshipper, I suppose." Karliah let out a sigh, an offering of frost up to her patron Daedra. "It's the temple of the Lady Nocturnal, cousin. The Nightingales are sworn to protect it with their lives. You remember the name because _everything _involving Nocturnal's presence here on Nirn is within those walls."

"So Mercer broke his oath to the Dark Lady," I surmised, and Karliah nodded. "Thieves and religion make odd bedfellows for humans, though."

"Not always," Karliah corrected good-naturedly. "I was of the same opinion when Gallus first revealed these things to me. But as a Nightingale, I am sworn to secrecy regarding the Sepulcher and the Nightingales. You understand, yes?"

"Of course."

"And I apologize—I _know _the Guild doesn't do much to foster faith—but I'm asking you to trust me."

The Guild? Pfft. Try House Morwyn. Nevertheless: "Very well."

Karliah seemed visibly relieved. "I found this with Gallus' remains—it was his in life. Given the circumstances though, I think he'd approve of my wanting you to have this." She held out a beautiful ebony blade to me, with Nocturnal's sigil set into the hilt and two powerful enchantments emanating from the metal. "This is the Nightingale Blade, Tiberia."

I drew the sword from its sheath and took a few practice swings. It was perfectly balanced, as though forged for my own hand. Either Gallus was exceedingly small for an Imperial man, or Daedric magic was afoot, here. My bet was the latter. "I will put it to good use," I assured Karliah as I buckled this sword across my hips, next to my ebony blade.

"If the Guild won't listen to reason," she said, soudning exhausted, "you might have to."


	62. The Pursuit

**Hey all you readers, lurkers, and fabulous reviewers :) Here's the one y'all have been waiting for :3**

**-)**

Two days later, I stood with Karliah just before the Ragged Flagon door in the Ratway. The secret entrance through the mausoleum was locked, though I suppose that was for the best. Jumping into the thick of the Guild with a presumed murderess wasn't exactly self-preserving.

"Are you ready to face the Guild?" Karliah asked me in that maddeningly soft voice of hers.

I nodded. "And you?"

She nodded. "Let's go." And she pushed the door open.

"What happens if Mercer's here?" I asked in a low voice as we made our way around the circular pool of water and into the Flagon. Vex, Delvin, and Tonilia, I noted, were absent from their usual places—only Vekel and Dirge remained. That was discomforting.

"We show them the journal and hope for the best," Karliah said with a shrug. "Remember, he's only got his word—we have proof."

I pushed open the door to the Cistern and Karliah and I padded into the room proper shoulder-to-shoulder. Three silhouettes stood poised against the dim light of the Cistern—one slender, clearly female; one thicker, battle stance revealing nothing but a shoulder; and one in the middle, strong and obdurate, arms folded and feet squared away: Vex, Delvin, and Brynjolf. Vex had her dagger out, lightning shimmered in Delvin's hands, and two wicked-looking Daedric war axes glinted in Brynjolf's battle-stance.

Brynjolf's normally smooth accent was no more than a growl: "You'd better have a _damn _good reason for showing up here, murderer."

"Please," Karliah said, doing her best to speak up, "lower your weapons so we can speak. I have proof you've all been mislead! I have Gallus' journal…"

"Damn right we have," Vex snarled. "How _dare _you bring her here as a Thrall!" She jerked her head in my direction.

"What? No!" Karliah's eyes were wide. "I would never…!"

"I went to Snow-Veil Sanctum," Brynjolf growled over her, easily silencing the woman. "I fought through to the Hall of Stories. I found nothing but blood and arrows. That meant one of two things: either Mercer was wrong, or there's Clan Necromancy afoot." His shoulders were visibly shaking under the force of his anger. "Mercer Frey is never wrong, and you're both of House Indoril. _Start talking, traitor."_

Karliah was mortally offended at the accusation. "What kind of Dunmer would I be to enthrall a clan sister!?"

"Holy Azura's ghost," I exclaimed, "I don't even think they know how offensive that is!"

The faces of current Guild Triad all fell in shock. "Thralls can't talk," Delvin said.

"They can't Shout either," I replied. "_ZUN HAAL VIIK!" _Vex's dagger went flying, Brynjolf's war-axes embedded themselves in the ground a few feet behind the Triad, and Delvin's magicka spluttered out.

Bryn got over the shock first. "Alright, hand over the journal… not you, Karliah, Tiberia."

Karliah handed me the leather-bound book and I strode forward carefully. I held it out to the acting Guildmaster—Mercer was nowhere in sight. Bryn's face was in its carefully-constructed mask, and I couldn't get a read on him. Neither could the wolf. Brynjolf cracked open the book. "This is in Falmer," was all he said.

"I have a translation…" Karliah began, reaching for the parchment interred in one of her pockets.

"Hands where I can see them!" Brynjolf barked, and Karliah instantly retracted her hand. "And I can read Falmer, thank you."

"I can't," Delvin said, and Vex nodded in agreement.

"No one's reading any translation until I've figured out what this says," Brynjolf cut in swiftly. "Now shut up a minute; I can't hear myself think over you. AND THE REST OF YOU…" He shouted into the Cistern. "…KEEP YOUR AIM ON THE TRAITOR!"

"Which one…?" someone asked pointedly.

"THE _MURDERING_ ONE!" Brynjolf called, exasperated.

We stood there in silence for several heart-stopping minutes as Brynjolf flipped through Gallus' journal. Where the hell had he learned to read Falmer? That was my question. Judging from the looks on Delvin and Vex's faces, they had the same one.

"No…" Brynjolf's brogue cut through the silence like a strike from Mehrunes' Razor. "It can't be…" He looked up from the journal, and in his eyes was the sort of distress that only came from having the world yanked out from underneath you. "It can't be true. I've known Mercer too long…"

"It's true, Brynjolf," Karliah said, her voice gaining power now. "Every word."

"What's it say, Bryn?" Delvin asked.

Brynjolf whirled on him. "Use your key, open the vault."

Delvin's brow furrowed. "What?"

"Just do it, Delvin!"

The aging Breton held up his hands for peace, and began to make his way over to the vault. Brynjolf fell right into step behind him, then came Karliah and me, and Vex brought up the rear. "It says Mercer's been stealing from the vault for years," Brynjolf relented as we crossed the stonework bridging the cistern pool. "Gallus was looking into it before he was murdered."

Murmurs arose from the assembled Guildsiblings. "How could Mercer open up a vault that needed two keys?" Delvin scoffed. "It's impossible! He could 'ardly pick 'is way in."

"The door has the best puzzle locks money can buy," Vex drawled from behind me. "Not even Mercer Frey could pick _them."_

"He didn't need to pick the lock," Karliah murmured, almost to herself.

"What's she on about?" Delvin asked suspiciously.

"Forget it," I said, shaking my head. The entire Cistern jumped at the sound of my voice. "Just open the vault."

Delvin strode to the vault door—thick steel with twin puzzle tumblers embedded into them—and mysteriously produced a key from somewhere on his person which then went into the lock. "Still locked up tighter than Jarl Elisif's chastity belt," Delvin surmised, half-turning back to face us. "Use yours and we'll find out the truth."

Brynjolf padded forward, mysteriously produced another key (which I later learned was identical) and the door fell open. "By the Nine… Get in here, all of you!"

The entirety of the Guild treasury was empty—naught remained but mist. Chests were opened and overturned, urns smashed and spread around the small, semicircular room, and tables stood barren and empty. "It's gone," Vex whispered as we four entered the room. "It's all bloody gone."

"The gold, the jewels, the weapons…" Delvin's jaw was on his chest in frank disbelief. "It's all gone…"

"That son of a bitch!" Vex barked, drawing her dagger. "I'll kill him!"

"'Old your thoughts now," Delvin warned.

"Vex, put it away," Brynjolf ordered. "Right _now." _His tone left no room for argument. "We can't afford to lose our heads."

"Do what 'e says, Vex," Delvin half-agreed with Brynjolf, half-coaxed Vex. "This isn't helping right now."

Vex unhappily sheathed her dagger. "Fine," she said, dangerously. "We do it your way. For now."

"Vex, search Karliah. Anything enchanted she's got, give it to Ondolemar or Niruin to examine," Brynjolf ordered. "Delvin… sweet Talos, I don't care _what _you do. Watch the Flagon, tell me right away if you see Mercer." The way he said it made me certain there was no way Mercer was ever coming back to the Ragged Flagon.

"Right, boss," both Guild Thirds said, and they disappeared with Karliah in tow, off to do their assigned duties.

And that's about when I felt myself enveloped in a bone-crushing hug. I did my best to reciprocate the intensity, but let's be real, here. A Dark Elf like me just can't compete with a Nord when it comes to brute strength. Neither of us said anything for the longest while, just held the other tight. Our breathing regulated to the same rhythm in the interim.

For once, it was Brynjolf who broke the silence, his voice choked with emotion as he said, "He told us you were dead, lass."

I didn't have to ask who 'he' was. "Come now, Brynjolf. You know full well that I am _far _too stubborn to die."

I glanced up to meet his eyes, and found nothing but complete relief and utter joy in his emerald gaze. Our foreheads met, and I closed my eyes again, feeling safe against something so solid. "What happened down there, lass?" Bryn asked quietly, his voice no more than a rumble from my vantage point. "What did Karliah tell you?"

"Mercer, not Karliah," I said, not moving from this place, "killed Gallus."

"Aye, I feared that was the case. From that last entry in Gallus' journal, it looks like he was getting close to exposing Mercer to the Guild. Anything else?"

"Karliah was behind Honningbrew and Goldenglow, too."

"Trying to make Mercer look bad in front of Maven, eh? Clever lass. Was there anything else she told you?"

I nodded, despite the fact that my forehead was resting against his still. "She, Mercer, and Gallus… they were Nightingales."

"What?" Brynjolf was so startled, he pulled back to look me in the eyes. "Nightingales? I always assumed that was just a tale. A way to keep the young footpads in line. You're telling me it's true?"

"Don't know about that," I said honestly. "But Lady Nocturnal's as real as Lord Sheogorath, you can bet on that."

"Talos guide us…" Bryn was shaking his head. "Was there anything else, lass?"

"No that's it. …Oh! No wait, there was something else. Bryn…" There was no easy way to tell him this, but not telling him would be far worse. "When we were down in the crypts… Mercer…"

"Did he touch you?!" There was the fire I expected out of my Nord. "I'll kill him for it."

"No, nothing like that. Calm down! And I've got dibs, first of all." I drew in a breath, and the little voice in the back of my head asked me, _since when do you refer to him as yours? _"No, Mercer…" I sighed, and just spat it out: "I think Mercer killed Raynor."

He took it rather well, all things considered. "What makes you say that?" he said, his voice uneven.

"Just before he stabbed me," I said, absentmindedly putting a hand to my still-healing ribs, "he said I was too much like Raynor Ceylonson for my own good—too violent, too curious, too clever."

Brynjolf was silent a moment, and then asked a completely unexpected question: "Mercer stabbed you there, didn't he?" He put his hand over mine, which still was positioned over my ribs. I nodded and he muttered, "That son of a bitch…"

"Easy now," I said, putting my other hand to the side of his face. His gaze flickered to mine at my touch. "We'll make him pay. But first, we need to track him down."

"Aye." Brynjolf's free hand went to his temples, clamping down on what was sure to be a major headache. "Mercer told me he left to track down Karliah, but he's probably making his way out of the country by now… By the bloody Nine, how did we not _see_ this?!"

"He had us all fooled," I reminded him quietly. Then General Stormcloak came roaring back with a thirst for vengeance. "Someone should break into Riftweald Manor, see if he left us any clues."

"That's the _last _place I'd want to send anyone right now." Brynjolf let out a sigh, and privately, I agreed with him. Between Mercer's human watchdog Vald, the hired thugs he kept around as of late, and the Manor's location in the middle of Riften, nothing about that job would be easy. "But it's the only lead we've got. He did all his planning there, all the ordering about here. I'll tell Vex to…"

"Hold it right there, Guildmaster," I interrupted, and when he didn't dismiss the title, I knew that, at least for now, this Nord was in charge of the Riften Guild. "Vex is our best infiltrator, sure, but not our best warrior. You send a thief in there, he'll get slaughtered by hired mercenaries. Not to mention, Mercer himself would murder him before he could even draw a dagger. Send a Companion, Bryn."

His eyes widened. "And you're the last person I want to send in there, lass! Hell, Mercer _stabbed _you! That thing needs healing; you need rest…"

"I wasn't asking permission," I interrupted, "but volunteering. No one else is going to get hurt because of Mercer Frey." I broke away from him then, mentally going over my running checklist of essential equipment. "Not when there's a Dragonborn to kill him."

"Dammit, Ty…!" He knew I was right, just didn't like it.

I half-turned back to face him from the Cistern proper, smirking as I did so. "Is that your new favorite parting shot?"

He shot me a look as he joined me in the Cistern. "Only when you're being infuriating."

I had to laugh at that. "Beats Vilkas', I suppose." I shrugged.

Bryn's eyebrow shot into his hairline. "Dare I ask…?'

"'Go die,'" I quoted with a shrug. "And the reply was always, 'you first.'"

Brynjolf laughed despite himself. "Such a loving relationship you two had, eh?"

We both stood there in silence a moment before bursting out, "I'm sorry."

"You were right," I said grudgingly. "Snow-Veil Sanctum had 'bad idea' written all over it."

"You're lucky I'm not one to gloat," he told me, and then, much quieter, added, "and _I'm_ lucky you made it out alive." He was back to his normal level for his next remark. "I'm not going to be able to stop you, am I?"

I shook my head. "Oblivion, no."

Brynjolf let out a breath and said, "Don't be a hero, Tiberia. Just find a way in, get the information, and _get out_. And you have permission to kill anyone in your way."

I could feel the ears on my spirit wolf flick backwards in surprise, even as my human brow furrowed. "Am I supposed to have been getting permission for that?"

Brynjolf slammed his palm into his forehead, and across the way, I heard identical smacks from a good chunk of the rest of the Guild. "I'm going to pretend like I didn't hear that," the acting Guildmaster said, shaking his head.

"So how do I get in?" I asked, skillfully diverting attention.

"Good question," Brynjolf admitted, pausing for thought. Then something occurred to him. "There's a ramp on the second floor balcony. If you hit it with an arrow I'm sure it would…"

"Try a Shout," I interrupted. "Bows are for pussies."

An insulted clamor arose from Cynric and Niruin, but it was quickly silenced by the glare I gave them. Oh, the Cistern. How I missed the small town feel of everyone being all up in your business (by which I mean, I didn't). Brynjolf, meanwhile, was laughing. "Or a Shout, Madam Dragonborn," he agreed. "And if you want to get around Vald, try talking to Vex. They were well acquainted, once upon a time."

"VEX!" I shouted across the Cistern. "YOUR TASTE IN MEN IS TERRIBLE!"

"I KNOW!" she shouted back, just as Delvin let off a semi-offended, "'EY!"

"Oh, and Bryn?" His attention snapped back to me. "I'll be getting around Vald the old-fashioned way." I tapped the hilt of my sword for emphasis. "Anything in my way will be quickly and violently removed."

"I thought you might…" His brow furrowed midsentence. "Since when do you have _three _swords in your belt? Talos, woman, you're dangerous enough as it is!"

I glanced down at my swordbelt, and realized, I still had Dawnbreaker, plus my Ebony Sword, plus Gallus' Nightingale Blade. "Long story, I'll tell you when I get back." I began to make the trek over to the secret entrance.

"Tiberia!" I heard my name called from over my shoulder.

"What…?" I began, half-turning back to the Cistern.

And that's when Brynjolf pulled me into a kiss so forceful, if he hadn't been holding me I would have fallen over backwards. Two weeks ago this would've elicited joking wolf-whistles and sarcastic catcalls from the Cistern, but now? Now there was just a collective 'awww…' as my Guildsiblings readied themselves for an all-out war. We stayed that way for a good long moment, but Brynjolf broke us apart just as suddenly.

"Never scare me like that again," he ordered firmly.

I smirked without malice. "I don't intend to."

As I began the climb out into the city proper, we parted on better terms than the last time: "If you die out there, I will never forgive you!"

"Good thing I'm too stubborn to die, then!" I called over my shoulder as I ascended the ladder.

Getting into Mercer's house wasn't too difficult. I snuck around the back, picked the gate lock, smashed Vald's skull into the ground, fus-ro-dahed the ramp open, and broke the balcony door open. Standing inside now, I still wasn't sure where Brynjolf's unease was coming from. Two mercenaries patrolled downstairs—I could hear them talking, and the wolf would've smelled them a mile off. Even if they were encased in ebony and wielding between them the Mace of Molag Bal, Wuuthrad, and the Wabbajack, I could take them solely because of the rage welling up within me from somewhere deep and primal. The _vomuz dovah_ in me was coming back in force.

She was assuaged by taking care of the two mercenaries downstairs, finding the secret tunnel to the Ratway, evading every trap Mercer had laid out, and stumbling upon his private office. Her desire for vengeance prompted me to break the glass display case and steal the infamous Chillrend (Mercer's sword from back in the day, which he almost never used now), every gemstone on his desk, and the bust of the Grey Fox that Delvin had always said he'd kill for. Her cold, calculating mind helped me go through all Mercer's papers, and find a map of Skyrim with several locales circled. And her deep-seated hatred of her enemies prompted me to set the now-empty desk on fire before departing.

Mercer had another tunnel that led into the Ratway Warrens, and apparently he was paying some of the residents to keep an eye on it for him. They immediately saw the Guild Armor and backed off, and I made it back to the Flagon without any trouble. I made my way carefully into the bar, and slammed the bust onto Delvin's table before disappearing into the Cistern, Delvin's gaping maw and confused gaze following me all the while.

I found Brynjolf and Karliah sitting on the edge of the Cistern pool. I caught the final snippet of their conversation (apparently, they were discussing Daedra) before Karliah greeted, "Cousin! How fared you?"

I smirked and unslung my backpack. "I went through his desk, found some papers I hope someone can make sense of…? Also Chillrend."

Brynjolf, now standing on my level, smirked, and held a hand out. "I'll get these plans to Delvin; he's the only one who could ever make heads or tails of Mercer's planning. I think it's a Breton thing." He shrugged. "You should keep Chillrend. No one can use it properly but you, anyway."

"Hey now," I said, feeling my face flush, "there are plenty of other swordsmen in this Guild who could use a decent sword."

Bryn laughed as Karliah said, "That's an elven blade, Tiberia. You may know it by its Dunmeris name, the Sword of Sorrow." She translated for Brynjolf's sake. "Mercer could use it because of his Breton blood, but it works best for us elves."

I spared another glance at the Glass Blade in my hands. "_Nchow," _I breathed, so shocked I reverted back to Dunmeris.

Karliah smirked, and nodded once. "A bloody blade with an equally bloody history. But regardless, you've got the most reason to use it."

I had to agree with that. The legends surrounding blade, if it truly was the Sword of Sorrow, were seeped in revenge and retribution. Apt for a Dunmer, no? "Regardless, someone needs to get those plans to Delvin." I gestured to the map in Brynjolf's hand. "I have no doubt that Mercer's on his way out of the province by now."

They both nodded. "I'll get these to Delvin," Karliah said, snatching the map out of Bryn's hand (and that's when I knew she was a master thief). "And I need to talk to the both of you. I'll meet you in the training room."

The _vomuz dovah _and the Wolf in me knew this wasn't going to be pretty.


	63. Leap of Faith

**Hey all you readers and lurkers (and awesomesauce reviewers) :) I'm just gonna set this one right over here and watch the fireworks.**

**The Non-PM Crew:**

**Lyriel: Nightingales, ahoy! **

**-)**

We met Karliah in the training room as requested. The three of us stood in a circle of sorts, each in our familiar positions exerting power. Myself with my arms folded across my sternum, heels firmly planted in the ground. Brynjolf with his hands balled into fists, arms akimbo. Karliah, limbs relaxed but taut, ready to bolt at a moment's notice.

"So what now?" I asked, breaking the unsettling silence.

She sighed. "Delvin figures Mercer's going to Irkngthand," Karliah informed us. "He thought you may know why, Brynjolf." She looked to the Nord, eyes questioning.

Bryn's brow furrowed, then—"That son of a bitch, he's going after the Eyes of the Falmer."

Karliah's sharp intake of breath informed me that I should be worrying about this. "I'm going to pretend like I know what that means," I quipped.

"Twin gemstones, roughly yea sized." He held his hands a good foot apart. "Worth a small fortune. If Mercer gets his hands on them, he'll be set for life. Living like a King in Exile off the Thieves Guild's greatest heist in recent history… it's just adding insult to injury."

"Gallus was working on Irkngthand before his death," Karliah added solemnly, sounding lost in thought. "He and Mercer scouted the ruin for more than a month and then..."

"It's a ruin?" I asked, my gut sinking. "That's not a Nordic name."

Bryn shook his head. "Nah, it's Dwemer. The Eyes of the Falmer are supposedly set into a statue of a Snow Elf."

Karliah nodded. "The only known visual representation of our lost kin. If you believe it's even in there, anyway."

"It's… Dwemer?" I asked, my voice sounding very small.

Brynjolf's brow furrowed automatically. I was never _quiet. _Even Karliah noted the change. "Aye," said the Nord slowly, scrutinizing my face for an answer. "Something wrong, lass?"

Blackreach had been enough to put me off Dwemer Ruins for life. Running into a dragon down there had terrified me—what had he done in life to be imprisoned so cruelly? I'm as much a creature of the sky as the next _dovah_; the underground is like torture. I put up with the Cistern for the sake of the Guild, and Nordic Ruins always have a back door, but Dwemer… I had always drawn the line at Dwemer. The College of Winterhold made me go to one once, as did Peryite, and I had had to scale Blackreach for the good of Skyrim, but as a general rule, I avoid the things like the plague. Damn Mercer Frey to Oblivion!

"I'm not good with being underground, in case you hadn't noticed," I said, realizing they both were looking at me in confusion.

"You live in a _sewer_," Karliah pointed out with one eyebrow cocked.

"And how often am I not in it?" I looked to Brynjolf for affirmation.

His face twisted as he realized, "A fair amount of the day, in actuality."

My smile was taut. "There's a reason for it." Quickly, I got us off the subject. "Don't worry about me; I'll figure something out. Just…" I shuddered visibly at the thought. "…I'm not going in there alone."

"Of course not!" Karliah said indignantly before Brynjolf even had the chance to. "And that, you see, is my next order of business." She drew in a breath. "I promise you, all your questions will be answered. I just need you to take a leap of faith."

I nodded. "Kinswoman." How long had it been since I could say that with pride to someone other than Avalon?

Brynjolf nodded as well. "Might-as-well-be-Kinswoman."

Karliah's dim smile was quickly replaced by a look of steely resolve. "Brynjolf, the time has come to decide Mercer Frey's fate. Until a new Guildmaster is chosen, this falls to you. What say you?" Wait… Bryn wasn't Guildmaster in name? Hell, the man did all the work to claim the title! Why not just make it official?

"Aye, lass." Brynjolf nodded. "Mercer tried to kill the both of you, murdered Gallus and Raynor in cold blood, betrayed the Guild and made us question our future. He dies."

Karliah nodded, accepting his decision without question. "We have to be very careful, regardless. Mercer is a Nightingale, an Agent of Nocturnal."

"Everything the two of you ever told me about Daedra was true, then," the Nord said, having trouble coming to terms with this. "The Nightingales, the Lady Nocturnal, the Twilight Sepulcher…"

We both nodded. It wasn't easy for Nords to accept the power of the Daedra under any circumstances. Comes from being Sons of Talos, I suppose. "That," Karliah murmured, "is why we need to meet Mercer on equal footing. Brynjolf, you know where the Standing Stone just outside Riften is, I assume? Shadow, isn't it?" He nodded. "Then I'd like the two of you to meet me there just before dawn. The Night Mistress is at her weakest when her sister is strongest."

"Azura is the Daedric Prince whose sphere is Dusk and Dawn, the magic in-between realms of Twilight," I quoted with a solemn nod, "and from whose realm our curses come."

"Precisely." Karliah nodded. "And if either of you have any unfinished business… now's the time. I don't know how well Nocturnal still favors me."

"Whether or not she likes you," I offered, "I'm Blood Bonded under her gaze."

Karliah paused. "You're Bonded? To whom?"

"My sister, Avalon," I answered swiftly, tapping my hip where my tattoo lay. "And Brynjolf's Unsullied, as far as I know…" I glanced him.

He shook his head. "I've not dealt in Daedra, no."

"Then two out of three ain't bad," I said, turning back to Karliah.

She nodded. "I'll gather the summoning tools, and see you two at dawn."

We nodded; she departed. I glanced to Brynjolf, and something unspoken jumped between us. I knew right then I wasn't going to bed that night; I had more important things to do than sleep.

-)

I knew something was up the instant we stepped out of Riften. Brynjolf had his arm around my shoulders, and hadn't interrupted my storytelling once. Both of these things were odd, but for different reasons. First, Bryn and I… we just _were. _Neither of us were the sort to explain ourselves to everyone with the audacity to ask, and he usually left my person alone until I started shivering. And I don't think I had _ever _told a full story in his presence without being interrupted at some point or another for a detail, sarcastic observation, or general bit of abuse—and haven't again, to this day.

My story was winding down as we reached the shoreline. "…And that's pretty much what happened on my end," I was saying. "Lying, betraying bastard, Tears of Azura, and more Beast Blood than I knew what to do with."

Brynjolf was laughing by now. "Lass, I don't know _how _you do it."

My eyebrow quirked. "Do what?"

"Get yourself into such trouble without even trying."

I snorted. "Brynjolf, I am _nothing _but trouble. Let's be realistic, here." He laughed, and I couldn't help but smile. I'd forgotten, just how much I loved that sound. "How fares the Nord in the land of the Daedra?" I asked, my brow already creasing in worry. He'd never been one for religion, this man.

"I'll be alright," he assured me, waving off my concern. "You've been making deals with the Daedra all your life, no?" A slow nod on my end. "And I've been dealing with Maven Black-Briar my whole life. I figure it's close enough." My turn to bust out laughing (he wasn't wrong). "And I figure if you're claimed by three or four of the bloody things, then I can handle one."

"Sacrilege!" I accused, jabbing my finger into his chest jokingly.

He smirked and caught my hand, but didn't retract the statement. "Azura in name, Sheogorath in actuality, Nocturnal by Bond, right?"

I nodded, surprised. "You remember my dedications?"

He smiled. "'Course. They're important to you. Just because _I'm _not a devout doesn't mean I ignore the fact that you are." He paused. "Listen lass, about Irkngthand…"

My turn to wave him off (with my singular free hand). "Don't worry about me, Brynjolf. I've scoured the damn things before, I'll do it again…" I drew in a breath. "What I do, I do for the Guild. I just have to remember that and I'll be alright."

His smile was warm, but his eyes were so sad. I couldn't fathom why. "Who taught you that?"

I shrugged. "No one. I've just always lived my life by some variation of it. We are all family, after all."

"Aye." He sounded so very far away.

"Thinking about Raynor?" I surmised quietly.

"I always had a feeling Mercer was involved in Raynor's death somehow," Bryn admitted. "I just… I figured they got into a fight and he didn't get to my brother in time, or didn't kill the man when he had the chance sitting in front of him on the desk in the Cistern. I never thought _Mercer _did the killing…"

"He deceived us all," I reminded Brynjolf quietly. "Sweet Talos, Mercer dragged me off to bed more times than I could count during that week before Ulfric's boys got here. And then he left me for a dead in some gods-forsaken ruin."

"Let's not talk about Mercer Frey right now." Bryn had one hand at his temples, trying to quell a massive headache.

I held up both hands, palms facing inward. "Peace, my friend. Be at peace."

"Why do you do that?" he asked, gesturing to my hands. "You, Delvin, and Ondolemar."

I tsked at being compared to that Altmer. "We're mages," I said anyway. "If our palms were facing outward, it would mean we could start spellcasting at any moment. If they face in, any magicka we do would be directed at ourselves. Surely you know how to bind a mage?"

"Aye, but I've never had to negotiate with one in terms of combat."

We receded into silence a long moment. I broke it: "Septim for your thoughts?"

Brynjolf let out a worn breath, an offering to his soon-to-be-Patron Daedra. "How many times have you been presumed dead in my life, eh? At least three, maybe four?"

I paused to do the math. _Incarceration at the Thalmor Embassy, Snow-Veil Sanctum, after Tonilia's wedding, facing Ulfric Stormcloak in open combat. _"Too many," I said quietly.

"_Aye," _he agreed vehemently. "And I know it's not your fault you're the thrice-damned Dragonborn, but it's not easy on those who care about you."

My heart caught in my throat. Those words never heralded anything good. "I know." And that was true; I did. "But what is it you want me to do, Brynjolf? Skyrim comes first. She must _always _come first."

"You don't have to explain kin and country to a Nord." His smile was wan, and right then and there, something in him snapped into place. "Look, Ty, there's something I need to tell you, and lass, I _know _what your knee-jerk reaction is going to be. For the sake of… well, both of us, can you put that aside for a moment?"

By Sheogorath, where was he going with this? "For you? Of course."

His smirk was becoming more genuine, but it didn't hide his unease (anxiety?). "I love you, Tiberia. It's that simple." I hardly even noticed he had my face in his hands. "If I learned one damn thing this past week, it's that. And for the record, I know you're nothing but trouble. Been that way since I first met you and you picked off a Brotherhood assassin." We both had to chuckle at that. "And I know it's asking you to take a leap of faith, and I know what your knee-jerk reaction is going to be, but I have to ask you anyway." He unlatched the clasp that held his armor shut at the neck, and withdrew from beneath his collar that (in)famous golden disc. He held it between two fingers, the same way he would a coin or a playing card, offering the face to me. "Lady Tiberia, House Stormcloak, House Morwyn, Great House Redoran…" Who taught him the Dunmeri way? "…I'm asking you to marry me. Because I'd rather live with the trouble than without you, lass."

My knee-jerk reaction was no. No, no, no, I'm putting you in danger like that. And he damn well knew he'd be risking his life and his sanity for this; he just didn't care_. _That was one of major reasons I always gave to Vilkas—I am, quite simply, too bloody dangerous to love and get away with it. It would be the death of him, possibly me. Besides, he was a Nord, and they value family so highly. Even if I ever changed my mind regarding children, I'm an elf. Brynjolf might not even be around long enough for me to reach childbearing age.

_ But you're part Nord too._

Ulfric had given me a lot of my major problems—hardheadedness and the Thu'um, chiefly—but he also gave me some of my deepest strengths. Duty, Gravity, Piety—those came from my Mother. Honor, Family, Glory—those came from my father. The Daedra and the Dovahsos were my link between the two. Which set did I live out more fully on a day-to-day basis? Which set was so ingrained in my being that to separate it was to unravel my very soul?

"You do not know what you are asking," I said quietly, unable to look him in the eyes. "To willingly throw in your lot with a Child of Sheogorath."

He tilted my chin up to face him now. "You're also a Daughter of Talos, you know."

"I don't need a hero, Brynjolf," I warned him, searching his face for any sign of insincerity. "I am one."

His countenance was serious. "I don't need a wife, Tiberia. I need a _partner."_

An equal, he meant. A sister-in-crime, a comrade, a counterpart, an ally. The very idea was alien to the Dunmer—in a marriage, the wife was subservient to the husband. His wishes came before her own, his needs before hers, no matter what those may be. My parents' marriage had been later in their lives—that was how my mother got away with holding onto her career. That dynamic, I realized, was why I had shied away from Dunmeri tradition, my arranged marriage, even Vilkas. The Nord blood in me wouldn't stand for anything less than a level playing field. She needed no protector, no provider. She was her own Guardian. (On second thought, that was probably the dovah. I have trouble telling the three apart sometimes.)

In the end, I went with my gut and my heart. After all, as a wise Nord once told me, they'll never steer you wrong:

"Yes." His face first fell in shock, then lit up with the sweetest joy. "Yes, Brynjolf, I will marry you."

We sealed the pact with a kiss, and I could feel him smiling through the connection. When we both came up for air, he rested his forehead against mine. "You're not Clan," he murmured, "so I don't blame you if you don't know, but do you remember when I explained this to you?" He tapped his clan ring with the opposite hand.

"Aye, it reminds you of the Clan virtues: family, honor and duty, your place in the world, and your relationship to Talos."

I could feel Brynjolf's eyebrow shoot into his hairline. "That's impressive, Ty. Haven't I only mentioned this once?"

I laughed. "Go on…?"

His good-natured smirk was back in full force. "Remember when I told you it'll only come off three times in a man's life?" I nodded. "This is one of them. It's tradition for a man's betrothed to wear his ring until their wedding day. You're not Clan, though, so…"

"Of course I'll wear it, idiot," I interrupted. _If it means so much to you._

He was laughing as he slid the silver circle off his hand and placed it on my palm, folding my hand over it. "Don't lose it, little elf," was all he said.

"You still don't have the right to use that name," I said as I tested the metal on different fingers. The only one I could be sure it wouldn't slide off was the first finger on my right hand. "No one but Farkas does. I've just gotten lazy about correcting people."

He snorted, asking in genuine curiosity, "Why Farkas?"

"He's the closest thing I'll ever have to an older brother."

We made the trek back to Riften as equals, neither of us before or behind, Brynjolf's clan ring glinting in the rising dawn.


	64. Trinity Restored

**Hey all you readers, lurkers, and fabulous reviewers :) Nightingales, ahoy!**

**And the non-PM crew:**

**Lyriel: Whoa, really? That's obnoxious. And yeah, Avalon should be returning soon :)**

**In Admiration: Haha glad I didn't disappoint :3**

**Hey oh, Let's go!**

**-)**

Brynjolf and I met Karliah at the Shadow Stone just as dawn began to seize the sky. She seemed to materialize out of the mists, only drawing attention to herself when she spoke, still so softly, so quietly: "I'm glad you're both here."

"Where is 'here,' exactly?" I asked pointedly.

"This," said Karliah with a sort of wistful fondness, "is the headquarters of the Nightingales. It was cut into the mountainside by the first of our kind during the time of Ysgramor."

Such a Nordic name sounded distinctly out of place in her Elven accent. "I suppose the next question is why are we here?" Brynjolf continued my train of thought.

"Come," Karliah said, beckoning us to follow her. "I'll do my best to explain on the way."

My next sentence was supposed to be a question. It didn't come out that way. "So we're to become Nightingales."

"That is my hope, yes," Karliah readily admitted as she led us away from the standing stone and around the side of the rock face.

A door sat a little ways back into the mountainside, akin to a mine shaft opening or bandit cave. But Karliah pushed it open heedlessly, and I followed with Brynjolf. I had expected to be swallowed by darkness, but instead found a natural rock formation, not unlike some of the other caves I'd explored over the years. Skylights above meant waning moonlight filtered into the cave, illuminating the passageways enough by which to see.

"So this is Nightingale Hall," Brynjolf observed from my left. "I grew up on stories from this place…but I never actually believed it existed."

"The assumption that the Nightingales were a myth was seeded in the Guild on purpose," Karliah said from her spot at point. "It helped divert attention from our true nature… What's wrong, Brynjolf? I can almost _hear _your brow furrowing."

I almost cracked up at that—I knew that feeling. "I'm just trying to piece it together," Brynjolf admitted meanwhile. "I can understand knighting Tiberia, but me? I'm not even religious—doubly so, when it comes to Daedra."

"This isn't about religion, Brynjolf. It's _business." _Karliah sounded astonishingly resolute. "Tiberia has her own quarrels with the Night Mistress, but you, Brynjolf, one might say was _born _to be a Nightingale."

"Now you're just not making sense, lass."

"Am I not?" Karliah questioned sarcastically. "Was your mother not Juri of Solitude?"

"And what in Talos' name does my mother have anything to do with this?" Probably shouldn't have been invoking Aedra here, but Brynjolf was spooked.

"Juri has _everything _to do with this, I'm afraid. You see Brynjolf, had she not gone inactive when she did, she would have joined the Nightingales over me."

Brynjolf was visibly startled. "You're not serious."

"Juri was a gifted thief," Karliah reasoned, still not turning back to face us. "Gallus had been waiting for just the opportunity to bring a new Nightingale into the fold when Juri went inactive. I was the next closest candidate, given my bloodlines and all."

"The Indoril blood in you, you mean," I said.

"Precisely." She did not stop there. "And when Mercer Frey vouched for me, and that was the end of that."

That reminded me. "Karliah, just what _were _you and Mercer before Snow-Veil Sanctum?"

She let out a long sigh. "Once upon a time, cousin, Mercer was as dear to me as your mother. He was a friend, a partner, a confidant, an ally. A fellow servant of Nocturnal and Guildbrother extraordinaire. He never claimed to be anything more to me, and I never found out the truth until it was far too late." Another sigh. "If you ask Delvin, he'll say Mercer loved me, but was too dense to realize it until I was happily involved with Gallus." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial level as she turned to face us. "If you ask me, I say he knew far before that, but was terrified of what it meant. It was a point of no return, and Mercer never makes such decisions lightly."

Something twisted in my gut. It all sounded so familiar. "'Love breeds hate just as surely,'" I quoted House Morwyn. "Mercer grew to resent you, didn't he?"

"Not me, no. Gallus. He grew to resent Gallus," she said just as we reached a large open cavern. A waterfall fell from one end and a small stream made its way to the other side unhindered. The Sigil of Nocturnal was emblazoned on multiple banners throughout the open room, and the mists of Skyrim permeated the air. Stone steps lead down to the ground level and off in different directions, while bronze braziers burned as fierce pinpoints in the gloom. "This is Nightingale Hall. You are the first of the uninitiated to step foot in here in over a century. Follow me to the armory… we don't have much time to begin the oath."

We followed her into the armory, and I noticed that we passed what once had been sleeping quarters. Three beds were overturned and one looked a bit charred. Books were scattered across the floor. Karliah paid none of this any mind—she was shaking in anticipation, or perhaps fear. She led us through a stone archway and up a small set of stairs into the armory, which turned out to be three large, angular stones, emblazoned with the Sigil of Nocturnal. She padded over to the stone on the left, gestured for Brynjolf to take the one on the right, and mine in the center.

"Go on," Karliah murmured. "Suit up."

Sitting atop each stone was a set of beautifully crafted black leather armor, expertly crafted into a seamless whole. Brynjolf, Karliah, and I all turned our backs to one another to don our new lives. On went the underthings, the legging and shirt, and over that, the shift that strapped into place to create a figure crated entirely of darkness. The Sigil of Nocturnal sang just below the collarbone, a nightingale with wings outstretched towards a full moon. I pulled the cloak about my shoulders, fastening it on either side of the sigil, and pulled the one part of the hood across my mouth and nose. The other went up and over my head, the boots to muffle my feet, and finally, the bracers, which left nothing exposed but my fingertips. The cloak went down to just about my knees, which I figured was for running purposes. Funny, I had never worn armor like this, and yet I needed no help getting dressed. Dimly, I realized this armor—a Nightingale's armor—is what Mercer wore when fighting the Stormcloaks. I folded my Guild Armor and set it atop the armory stone, having nowhere else to put it.

"Everyone ready?" Even Karliah's powerless voice cut through the silence like a white-hot blade.

"Aye," came a voice from my left even as I said, "Aye."

I spared a glance towards my fellow Nightingale-to-be, was immediately struck by the terrifying visage he posed, and I realized something. In the entire time I'd known him, I'd mostly seen Brynjolf in his Guild Armor. His was the armor of a higher operative, all crisscrossing straps and black leather. But Brynjolf, I'd always personally thought, never seemed to quite fill out Guild armor. I'm not talking physically (come now, the man's a fully-grown Nord), but in personality. The Armor of the Nightingale, though, suited him, almost as though he were born to wear it.

"Let's get this show on the road," Brynjolf said, shattering the moment. "Time's wasting and Mercer's still out there."

"Right, follow me." Karliah led us through another archway that led into an antechamber of sorts.

"Alright lass," Brynjolf said as we three stood apart, in a circle of sorts. "We've got these getups on… Now what?"

"Now," Karliah said with an amazing amount of patience towards the disbelieving Nord, "The two of you will transact the oath… if Nocturnal is listening. To hold any hope of defeating Mercer, we must have Nocturnal at our backs…"

Bryn folded his arms across his chest. "And if she isn't listening?"

"Then she isn't," I replied firmly. Daedra are nothing to scoff at, but I had no doubt that Nocturnal was listening to our every word. This was too important to her not to be.

Karliah nodded to me, because I understood. "Tell me, Children of Talos, why does the Guild always have a Triumvirate in charge?"

This was something drilled into Thieves Guild members from day one. As such, Bryn and I answered in unison, "The Triad cannot act alone, or as opposing forces."

"Exactly." Karliah nodded once more. "When there are two, or when there are four, lines may be drawn and sides may be created. But when there are three—and only when there are three—these lines do not exist. There is always a majority."

"And that's why there are three now," I observed. "Nocturnal requires a triad, the same as the Guild."

Karliah nodded solemnly. "The Nightingale Trinity was disrupted by Mercer Frey a great many years ago, and we will put it right now." She drew in a breath, seemed to debate something in her mind, then said, "I am the Agent of Stealth, the crescent moon, the Hidden Nightingale. I live in the Shadows, and the Shadows live in me. So much so, that I tend to disappear when sneaking."

A slow smile crept across my face, not that anyone could see it under the mask. "That's how you lived on the run, isn't it?"

Karliah had to be smiling—I could hear it in her voice. "Perhaps." Then she turned to Brynjolf and was serious again. "Now, Brynjolf, you wear the armor of the Agent of Subterfuge, the half moon, the Eloquent Nightingale. You influence the Shadows, and the Shadows influence you. You, when you fully assume the role, may cloud the mind and judgment of those around you without their knowledge."

Then she turned to me. "Tiberia, you wear the armor of the Agent of Strife, the full moon, the Warrior Nightingale. You hide the shadows, and the shadows hide you. When you fully assume the role, you will have the power to steal the life force of another to feed your own."

Stealth, Subterfuge, and Strife. Our roles fit us so perfectly, and yet, I saw a flaw. Something she wasn't telling us. "Karliah," I said, folding my arms across my sternum. "Mercer is still a Nightingale. A rouge one, but a Nightingale nonetheless."

She shifted in discomfort. "Mercer Frey is the current Agent of Strife, yes. To become that which you were born to be, Tiberia Morwyn, you must first assume a different role—the Nightingale's Talon."

"An Agent of Retribution." It wasn't a question.

She nodded anyway. "You will have to petition Nocturnal personally for the privilege of assuming her right hand."

"Meaning what?" Brynjolf asked pointedly.

"If I knew, so would you," Karliah assured us. "There has never been a need for the Nightingale's Talon in living memory."

"Beautiful."

A silence settled over us, then Karliah spoke again. "If Nocturnal is to accept either of you as one of her own, an arrangement must be struck."

"And the terms?" Good ol' Brynjolf, sounding just like he did in the Cistern.

"The terms are quite simple, really." Karliah was weaving a masterful spell over us. I wasn't sure how much I appreciated it, but I knew Daedric Lore had a tendency to do that. "Nocturnal will allow you to become a Nightingale, and use your abilities for whatever you wish. In return—in both life and death—you must serve as a guardian of the Twilight Sepulcher."

I snorted through the mask. "As if there aren't enough celestial beings who want to spend some quality time with me once I die."

"Don't mention that in Nocturnal's presence," Karliah warned sharply. "Don't even think it."

"There's always a catch," Brynjolf muttered, half-ignoring the two Dunmeri women in his midst. "But at this point, I don't think there's much of anything to lose."

Karliah drew in a breath and said to the both of us, "Are you ready to transact the Oath with Nocturnal?"

"As I'll ever be," Brynjolf admitted.

"Aye," I said without hesitation. "What's one more, at this point?"

Karliah turned on heel and headed up the next set of stairs. "I will open the gate," she said as she made her way down the hallway and over to a pull chain. "Tiberia, stand on my right, Brynjolf, stand on my left. And do not speak unless spoken to."

"Understood," we affirmed.

The gate opened into a carnivorous cavern, with a large circular dais in the center, and three stone bridges connecting to smaller points just above the level of the first platform. Water glittered in the fading moonlight, the rising dawn below the surface of all sets of these stone points. I took the left bridge, Brynjolf the right, and Karliah took the one in the center. We turned as one to face the center platform. As I did so, I couldn't help but note that the Sigil of Nocturnal was carved into every stone mesa.

"I call upon you Lady Nocturnal. Queen of Murk, Empress of Shadow!" Karliah shouted (or at least, for her it was shouting). "Hear my voice!"

There was nothing but silence for a long moment. But then, just above the center dais, an Oblivion portal popped into existence, all purple and black swirling magicka. A cold wind issued forth from whichever Plane of Oblivion its owner possessed, and a smooth, feminine voice emanated from within. "Ah, Karliah. I was wondering when I'd be hearing from you again. Lose something, did we?"

Karliah immediately dropped to her knees. Her next words came out exceedingly fast. "My Lady, I have come to throw myself upon your mercy and accept responsibility for my failure."

"You're already mine, Karliah," the voice reminded harshly. "Your terms were struck long ago. You have nothing to offer me now."

"But I do." My Cousin's voice did not shake, but her body did. "I have two others who wish to transact the oath, to serve you in life as well as death."

"You surprise me," the voice admitted, taking on an entirely different tone. I noticed that, if I looked directly at the portal, the light coming from within made the purple mist look like the Sigil of Nocturnal. "But there is already another Nightingale. Dear Mercer Frey..." She was clearly being sarcastic.

"My desire for revenge outweighs mine for wealth, your grace."

"Revenge?" Now the mist, the portal, Nocturnal—whatever—sounded intrigued. "How interesting… Whom do you have to take Mercer's place, then?"

"Another of Indoril blood," Karliah said, glancing to me.

"That one reeks of Aedra! Impossible to be kin of yours."

"She's a Halfling, my Lady."

An older term, vaguely insulting these days. But Karliah didn't mean any harm—she was just making sure Nocturnal understood exactly how I could be blood of Ysgramor and the Nerevarine. "Lady Nocturnal," I called, and the light turned to face me (as much as swirling mists can, anyway), "I wish to assume the role of the Nightingale's Talon."

I could hear her smiling. "You wish to assume my right hand? To take your place through the sake of your name? An Agent of Strife, you shall be, dear Tiberia Morwyn, should you succeed."

From what I knew of Nocturnal, she was a Daedra more like Boethiah and less like Azura. Being submissive got you nowhere—that was why she'd snapped at Karliah. With Daedra like this, it was best to meet them on their own level. "Am I not already, Lady Nocturnal?"

Clear, cold laughter rang throughout the room. "Very well, Sheogorath's Child, your terms are acceptable!" Then she turned back to Karliah. "And whom do you have to take the empty place, hmm?"

"The son of your chosen from a generation past," Karliah offered, and she looked to Brynjolf, the light following her.

"And you, Son of Talos," the voice asked, "what makes you think you are fit to transact the oath?"

A moment of quiet, and then the best words he could have possibly said rang out: "I am the Shadows, and the Shadows are in me."

Nocturnal laughed again, still so cold, so clear. "Very well, Brynjolf, Son of Juri, I accept your terms!" She turned back to Karliah. "You may proceed, Child of Mine."

"Lady Nocturnal, we accept your terms," Karliah's voice grew stronger with each word. "We dedicate ourselves to you as avengers and your sentinels. We will honor in this life and the next until your conditions have been met."

As Nocturnal next spoke, an amethyst mist surrounded the trio of mortals in her midst. "I name you, Brynjolf Jurison, and you, Tiberia Indoril Morwyn, Nightingales, and restore you, Karliah Indoril, to the same." A pregnant pause. "And in the future, Child of Mine, I'd suggest you refrain from disappointing me." And the portal snapped shut, taking the cold air and even colder voice with it.

As she disappeared, I felt my right hand set itself alight. Alarmed, I glanced down to find… nothing. There was no fire, and yet my hand was burning. I brought it to the level of my eyes, only to discover that the ends of my bracers, which formerly had left my fingertips exposed, now had smooth black talons jutting out from the ends. I snorted at the literal translation. I truly was the Right Hand of Nocturnal, the Nightingales' Talon. I hid my hand as I padded down the stone bridge. I'd cross that line when I got to it.

I met Bryn and Karliah on the major dais where Nocturnal's portal had floated only a moment before. "Now that you've transacted the oath," Karliah said, still visibly shaken from her encounter with an angry Daedra, "it's time you learned of Mercer's true crime—the last piece of the puzzle."

"As if stealing from the Guild right under our noses wasn't bad enough," Brynjolf quipped.

"Mercer could unlock the Guild vault without two keys because of what he stole from the Twilight Sepulcher—the Skeleton Key."

I couldn't help it; I gasped. "That _exists?"_

She nodded vigorously. "It exists, all right. And before you ask, Brynjolf, the Skeleton Key is more than an unbreakable lockpick. It isn't limited to physical barriers—it unlocks the untapped parts of our minds in which great power lies. Normally, it is securely sealed away inside our minds, but once you've realized the Key unlocks these traits… the possibilities are _limitless. _By stealing it, Mercer has compromised our ties to Nocturnal and, in essence, made our luck run dry. Cursed us, if you like."

Brynjolf snorted. "I hate it when Delvin's right."

"Sounds like no one should have the Skeleton Key," I surmised, folding my arms across my chest. "It's bloody dangerous."

"Yes, exactly! Our uncanny luck defines our very existence, whether you know it or not. Now you understand why need to get the damn thing back from Mercer! …Oh! Apologies my Lady…!"

"Karliah," I interrupted the would-be supplication, "Nocturnal isn't Azura. You don't need to apologize for every little thing."

She seemed a tad put off, and so Brynjolf commented, "First time I ever set out to _return _something."

Karliah let out an unexpected laugh. "Very true. In our line of work, it's very rare that we set out to return a stolen item to its rightful owner." She sighed. "Brynjolf, wasn't there something you wanted to ask Tiberia?"

"He took care of that," I replied, first sliding it out of the bracer, then holding up the hand with his clan ring on it.

Her eyes widened in shock beneath the hood. "That… isn't what I meant, but _oh my sweet Meridia, that's wonderful!"_

"Isn't it?" Brynjolf told her with a smile, but his voice was serious when he turned to me. "Listen, lass. Before we go take on Mercer Frey, there's one last bit of business to settle—leadership of the Guild."

"No," I said at once, sliding my hand back into the bracer. "You're not asking that of me… you _can't _be."

"That's _exactly _why we're asking you, lass," Brynjolf said, holding both hands up, palms out. "You don't want power; that's why you're the best of us to wield it."

"What about you? You've been there longer; and you're a better thief."

"I'm good at what I do, aye," he agreed readily enough. "Maybe one of the best. But it's all I know, Tiberia. I've never been one to lead. Never desired it, never cared for it. Don't want it."

My hand snapped up in his direction, clearly saying, 'exactly!'

"Difference between you and me though lass, is that you're a _born _leader. You don't want power because you think it corrupts—and maybe it does, Mercer's proof enough of that. But if you don't want it, it will never take you alive. Come on, lass. People _want _to follow you. You remember the Battle for Riften, the week before? You even had Mercer following your orders."

"I'm a general; they didn't want to _die."_

"Tiberia…!" he sounded exasperated.

Brynjolf was speaking sense, but I tend to try and avoid leadership. Somehow, though, it keeps getting thrust into my lap. "Fine," I growled. "After we kill Mercer, I'll see if I can't convince you otherwise."

"No one's forcing you, Tiberia," Karliah soothed.

I half-turned to look at her. "As if I have a choice. If Brynjolf won't take the job, who else is there? Delvin's too old, Vex too hotheaded, and the Junior Members can barely remember to keep their boots laced at all times."

"So do you accept?" Brynjolf prodded, for once a stickler for tradition.

I drew in a steadying breath. I was going to need it. "I accept."

As we began the trek back out into the world, I could feel the energy coming off of Bryn in droves. Karliah walked a few paces ahead of us. "Guess we're Nightingales now," I commented.

"Aye," he agreed. "And some of what Karliah said is starting to make sense. Mercer may have damaged our reputation and raided our coffers, but this is above and beyond even the most twisted form of larceny." He shook his head, and his next words had the air of a premonition: "This will be a fight to remember."

I smirked. That was one way to put it. "Oh, and Tiberia?" Karliah slammed into my train of thought. "There's one more thing."

"There's _always _one more thing," I groused.

Karliah smiled wanly. "You're slated to be the new Agent of Strife, cousin. You do realize what that means?"

It smacked me in the face, right then. "I have to be the one to kill Mercer Frey."


	65. Blindsighted

**Hey all, hope you enjoy this one :) I hated Irkngthand, but this was a fun chapter to write.**

**And the non-PM crew:**

**Lyriel: I feel like the life of every Dragonborn is nothing but pressure.**

**Onward.**

-)

"I honestly don't know _where_ it came from, lass," Brynjolf answered uneasily as he, Karliah, and I made our way across Skyrim. We'd gone to the Cistern shortly after dawn, gathered our things, and set out on horseback to Irkngthand. The ruin was situated in the far west of Eastmarch, nearly in Whiterun Hold, and south of the White River. "Just that something was telling me I should probably spit it out."

We were talking about the answer he'd given Nocturnal—I am the Shadows, and the Shadows are in me. "Did that something," I began only half seriously, "have an outrageous accent, a penchant for dressing in motley, and the innate desire to skip rope with the entrails of mortals?"

Karliah burst out laughing from her position at point. "Um, no?" Brynjolf was caught so off guard, he actually had nothing to say.

I smirked. "I think it did."

"Do I want to know, Karliah?" he called to her.

"You're the one marrying a Child of Sheogorath!" she shot back.

Something clicked, as Bryn slammed a palm into his forehead. "Talos have mercy…"

It took a full three days to get to Irkngthand. A full three days of minimal sleep, hard riding, and firm resolution. A firm, terrible resolution. When we first saw the rounded, bronze domes of the ancient Dwarven city, I felt a curious combination of relief, anger, and fear. Relief that this would all soon be over. Anger at Mercer Frey. Fear of the ruins, and what lay inside.

Snow was falling in earnest now, despite the fact that it was nearly Hearthfire, and the little white invaders were covering the sleeping city in a layer of fine powder. We tied up the horses to a relatively safe outcropping of trees, then headed over the crest of the hill overlooking the ruin. A group of bandits, maybe five or six men, had set up camp just inside the outer walls. They didn't look so tough to me, but Karliah hesitated. "We should sneak around them," she murmured as she soundlessly drew her bow. "Or pick them off one-by… _Tiberia!"_

Even as she spoke, I had already hopped over the crest of the hill and barked the words, "ZUL MEY GUT!"

However, they came out sixteen feet to my left and said, "HEY UGLY! WAS YOUR MAMA A DREMORA!?"

Instantly, every bandit in the place went to go locate the source of the noise and avenge the insult to his mother. And that's when I laid into them, dual-sword style. A familiar laugh sounded behind me, and then Brynjolf joined the fray. His twin Daedric Axes glittered in the morning light. We made short work of them, and continued up the steps towards the front door. Karliah was shaking her head all the while. "The two of you are so Nordic, it _hurts."_

"I see no problem with this," Brynjolf commented as he muscled open the door.

"Good thing we brought you for the heavy lifting," I commented dryly. I got a sarcastic wink in reply.

The inside of Irkngthand was remarkably like every other Dwarven Ruin I've ever had the misfortune to be in. Dimly lit by old magic, mushrooms and other fungi growing all over the damn place, bronze accents over stone doors, and the musty smell of once-living things left to sit too long. But this ruin had another, more overpowering scent—the metallic tang of blood. In the first, amphitheatre-style room, the corpses of four or five bandits lay strewn about a campfire. Their bedrolls were probably still warm.

"Mercer's been here," I surmised grimly.

"Aye," Brynjolf agreed, then made a face at me. "And that something from earlier tells me this isn't a social visit."

I rolled my eyes as we three fanned out, checking the dead bandits for keys and fatal wounds. "Sheogorath's trying to tell you something, my friend," I argued. "You just don't know how to listen to Daedra."

"And if I'm lucky, I never will."

"You're awfully anti-Daedra to be a Nightingale," Karliah commented dryly.

"And Tiberia's rather pro-Aedra," he fired back.

"Not Aedra," I scoffed. "Just Talos." I bore his legacy, after all. "Besides, if you hate Daedra so much, why do you use Daedric Axes?"

"Because," Brynjolf said evenly and his words held the ghost of a smile, "my godsfather gifted them to me on my sixteenth birthday." The day a Nord boy became a man.

"And your godsfather is…?" Karliah asked.

Brynjolf's brow furrowed in the gap of mask and hood. "Delvin Mallory. I thought you knew that, _Aunt_ Karliah." He didn't call her that anymore, but the point remained.

"I thought yours was Mercer…?" Karliah sounded puzzled, then it snapped into place. "Ah, he must have been Raynor's."

I could practically see Brynjolf's face shifting into hard lines under the mask. "Then the bastard murdered his own godsson."

Now that was a chilling thought. I could almost picture the night Vex had told me about, so long ago, just after my own Thieves Guild trial. Twin full moons, blood on the streets, fire on the water, and a still-burning corpse in the black leather armor of a Higher Operative. She told me Mercer had come charging through the Ratway to find the three of them, and what better cover was there for a murderer than reporting the crime? Mercer was cunning as the Grey Fox of Cyrodiil… he would know that he would be the last person the Guild would point fingers at, especially if he was the one who reported the crime _to the brother_. Brynjolf had told me about the night the Guildmaster had gotten back from Snow-Veil. Mercer, apparently, gave quite the performance. He'd even scratched himself up to look the part. No wonder no one had ever thought to investigate _him; _he appeared to operate as his Second and his Thirds—what he did, he did for the Guild.

"By Talos," Bryn growled, "the bastard will pay for this. _All _of this."

Karliah was kneeling beside one of the dead bandits, examining his wounds. His throat appeared ripped entirely out—as though a werewolf had descended upon him—and the hack-and-slash marks were legion. There was no need for such abject cruelty. After all, Mercer could have easily snuck past the lot of them.

"He wasn't always so ruthless," she murmured, her eyes so very far away. "He was always gruff, always no-nonsense, but he was never needlessly cruel." Her eyes refocused and she looked up at Bryn and me. "Once upon a time, Mercer Frey was a good man."

I thought back to my time with the Guild, and I realized something: he may have been robbing us blind as he did so, but Mercer looked after his Guild. He cut Delvin off when the latter had too much to drink. He walked Tonilia down the aisle on her wedding day. He sat around the Flagon playing Daggerfall Poker with junior members and senior alike. He had tutored Vex in the art of infiltrating, and continued to throw pointers at all of us. When I'd joined ranks, he'd often sparred with me, just so neither of us got lazy in our swordplay. He and Brynjolf could (and would) sit and talk for hours on the finer points of larceny and brawling. When Sapphire had been getting harassed in the Bee and Barb one night, he'd seen to it personally that those men never bothered her again. He filched ebony and Daedric arrows for Niruin and Cynric whenever he got the chance, and told stories around the Flagon about the Guild's heyday and painted us a picture of a brighter future. And despite the fact the Guild was rushing headlong into the ground, he never let anyone believe he'd given up hope.

In that moment, I also realized something else important. I could hate what he'd done, I could hate what he'd become, and I could hate that arrogant persona with all my heart, but I would never hate Mercer Frey. Not the man, the Nightingale, the Guildmaster. It made my job so much more difficult, but I was, without my knowledge, separating the man from the monster. The monster stole the Skeleton Key from the Twilight Sepulcher and cursed the thieves of the land; the man had dragged me off to bed when I so desperately needed sleep. The monster had killed Raynor Ceylonson, and probably indirectly Juri and Ceylon himself; the man had made the surviving son Second-in-Command. The monster had stabbed me in Snow-Veil; the man had given me honest advice regarding my tangled love life. The monster was now, as we spoke, deep within the ruins of Irkngthand, potentially pulling off one of the greatest Guild heists in history before making a clean getaway; the man… I didn't know where the man was, but he wasn't here.

"We need to keep moving," Brynjolf said, and I was snapped back to Nirn.

"Right, I'll take point." No need for either of them to get killed should we run into any automatons.

And automatons there were—Spheres, spiders, and even a Centurion, later on—but Mercer had already taken out a good chunk of them. Which was surprising, given that the metal contraptions didn't go down easy and Mercer was _one _man. And then there were Falmer. So. Many. Falmer. All with epithets. It was like Snow-Veil Sanctum all over again. But those weren't 'til later, either. And then there were the traps. These were now. Dwemer were fond of traps, I'd discovered over the years. Spinning wheels of fire, blades that shoot up out of the ground like vicious propellers, motion-detecting magicka on all their machines … what was so gods-damned important in these cities that required them to be so heavily guarded? I'd never found anything of _that _caliber.

We made our way to the Grand Cavern below the Arcanex, no harm, no foul. Nothing too evil had been lurking so close to the surface. We took the lift down and made our way through a few more twisting and turning tunnels and into the aforementioned Grand Cavern. We reached the central section and found ourselves on a balcony that had been walled off with slatted golden gates, presumably, back in the day, to keep Dwarven children from falling to their deaths. "Wait…" Karliah's voice cut through the gloom. "What _is _that?"

We three hurried over to the grates to get a look at the room beyond. And below us (so many levels below us) was Mercer Frey, hacking and slashing at some automatons (Spheres, maybe? I don't know; it was hard to tell from this far away). "He's toying with us," Karliah growled. "Wants us to follow."

"Aye, lass," Brynjolf agreed, hefting his war axes again. "But we'll be ready for him. For now, though, let's keep moving." And we set off again.

More twisting tunnels led us down to the ground level eventually. I was hopelessly lost already; this damnable place had better have a back door. As we made our way through the smoky green-lighted ruin, Brynjolf mentioned to me, "Look at the _size _of this place? Have you ever seen anything like it, lass?"

"Can't say I have," Karliah offered.

"Clearly," I snorted, "the two of you never had to scale Blackreach."

Brynjolf's Nord senses went off like a firecracker. "That _exists, _Ty?"

I nodded. "Oh, yeah. Had to go down there for an Elder Scroll. Did not endear Dwarven ruins to me."

Karliah actually gasped. "An Elder Scroll?!"

"It's a _long _story, cousin…"

We passed a great deal many Falmer huts (and Falmer…). These poor sightless creatures always brought out a twinge of sympathy before I cracked their skulls. They had been elves, once upon a time, Snow Elves. Elves like me and Karliah. They were _mer, _and yet their servitude had rendered them blind and hate-driven. A terribly sad story, it was. The Dwemer so feared the Snow Elves' power, they forced them to eat poisonous fungi that eventually made the race go blind. Ironic, then, that the Falmer survived while their Dwarven overlords were lost to time.

Some time later, we reached a stretch of cave with two ways through it. Without prompting, Bryn and Karliah both looked to me. "You want to take the high road or the low road, lass? Your choice."

I beckoned them to follow me, and we began our trek up to the high road… and were immediately beset on all sides by Falmer. Swarms of the bloody things, all snarling and drooling like mad dogs. Some had bows (and _how, _I ask you, do they shoot with any accuracy? They're _blind!_), some had crude axes and swords, and still other used magic—ice magic, fittingly enough. Brynjolf took one for the team in that respect. His Nord blood granted him a high resistance to frost magic, and so whenever any was sent my way (or even Karliah's), if he could, he'd take the brunt of it.

"Dodge _this!" _Karliah shouted (actually shouted!) as she took out the last of them for this round.

There was suddenly a great rumbling of the earth, and we three exchanged glances and took off running for the end of the hall as the high road came crashing down beneath us. We all ended up jumping off onto a rather solid cliff, if you ask my knees. "What was that?" Karliah asked nervously.

Brynjolf, however, had crept ahead. "By the Nine… the tower collapsed. Mercer managed to collapse a freaking Dwarven _tower."_

"_He_ didn't," I said, unsure where the words were coming from. "The Skeleton Key did."

"He's trying to block our pursuit," Karliah observed grimly.

I shot her a look. "You don't say?"

"Easy, lass," Brynjolf warned. Then he broke off in shock again. "Good gods…"

We made our way through more tunnels, more Dwarven living quarters (with a lovely message from our prey scrawled backwards on the wall "One step ahead –Mercer." As if we didn't already bloody know), and nearly ran headlong into a Dwarven Centurion, the largest and nastiest of their golden-bronze automatons. They stand nearly as tall as two men on one another's shoulders, and their armor seems to be the same caliber as Dwarven body armor. One had nearly killed me in Blackreach, all those years ago. "Shor's Bones," Brynjolf muttered. "Look at that monstrosity."

"I say we sneak by," Karliah said, as the thing was still in resting mode. "It's rather lar…_Tiberia! Dammit!"_

I had already run headlong into the fight, barking, "_YOL TOOR SHUL!"_

"That's my lass!" I heard Brynjolf exclaim with a laugh before he too joined the fray.

Our battle taunts clogged the air as we hacked and slashed and shot. My "I'll see you in Oblivion!" and Brynjolf's "So, it's to the pain then?" and Karliah's "Come, coward, and we fight!" And then we found ourselves knee-deep in a Falmer village. More of them kept coming, most with epithets (really, I was getting tired of explaining to people the hierarchy of some of these damn things. Falmer and Draugr, especially).

Finally—_finally—_we had cleared the entire room of everything that wanted us dead. We opted to take a short break on the set of stairs on the end of the room opposite the now-decommissioned Centurion because, for all the adrenaline pumping through our veins, our bellies were beginning to growl. And sneaking on an empty stomach sucked. Fighting, even more so. We passed around hard cheese, slightly stale bread, and dug out the canteens. Our hoods went down around our shoulders, and we reveled in the chance to breath fully.

"So when did you find the Guild?" I asked my cousin by means of conversation. It was too damn quiet around here. Put me on edge.

Karliah smiled. "The Guild found me, is more like it. I grew up in Mournhold."

"I thought so." I grinned. "You've still got the accent."

Karliah chuckled. "I know…"

"So how'd you end up in Riften, lass?" Brynjolf interjected. "They're hardly next door."

"Because the Cammona Tong is a bunch of fetchers," Karliah growled. "Wanted me in their pathetic little outfit. You're an Indoril, they said, larceny is in your blood. Never mind that the Morag Tong had more honor in one assassin then they did between the lot of them. So I left Mournhold, traveled Tamriel for a time, and somehow ended up in Riften. In those days, Gallus would walk through the streets with a coinpurse tied to his belt, out in the open, to scout for possibilities."

Brynjolf was laughing. "Walked right into that one, didn't you lass?"

"Yes, actually." She laughed. "He inducted me practically on the spot. My first job, actually, was a dual-heist with Mercer Frey."

"Really?" I asked, absentmindedly picking at the bread in my hands.

Karliah nodded again. "We were sent topside to teach some noble a lesson. That was the first time I ever worked with Mercer Frey…" She grew… I don't know, not quite wistful, but certainly melancholy. "Of course, back in those days, his name was as unknown as the next footpad. He was young, curt, brash, sarcastic… and we loved our Guildbrother just the same." She sighed. "We instantly took a liking to each other, no-nonsense, talented thieves as we were. 'Course, Mercer doesn't really _like _anyone, but he insulted me marginally less than most. And as the years went on and I learned to spout abuse right back, we had something of a rapport, not unlike yours." She gestured from me to Brynjolf and back again. "We got back from that first heist far earlier than Gallus had expected, and had pulled everything of without a hitch. The Guildmaster was shocked—Mercer was hardly what anyone would call a team player—but actions speak louder than words. So Gallus sent us out on more and more jobs together. And so Mercer and I, we learned to speak with silence."

"You sound like you were close," Brynjolf observed quietly.

"We were, once upon a time." Karliah was staring off into space, fingering the Sigil of Nocturnal on her armor absentmindedly. "And we only grew closer as Nightingales."

"So how'd you end up with Gallus?" It was a question I'd always had. Everything she and Mercer had said pointed towards the opposite direction.

"I'm still not entirely sure," Karliah admitted. "As a general rule, I don't find humans all thatattractive to begin with, and certainly I would have died for either of my fellow Nightingales. But there was always something about Mercer that kept me away from that arena. Something that set off warning signals. Gallus elicited no such qualms."

Brynjolf's eyebrow quirked up. "What do you mean, warning signals?"

Karliah sighed yet again. "Call it a woman's intuition, I suppose. Something was just never right with Mercer Frey. Something that would easily give way to evil, given half a chance." She shrugged. "I think part of it came from growing up in Honorhall, but part of it is innate. Something about that man's birth just wasn't right in the stars."

I paused, my mind working something over. "Did Nocturnal ever have a problem with him?"

"I don't believe so," Karliah murmured. "He hadn't been claimed by any of the Princes beforehand—she would have mentioned it."

"Like she called Tiberia out," Brynjolf surmised.

"Aye," I told him. "She knew I was Sheogorath's."

"It's just a mystery, I suppose." Karliah shrugged, then stood. "Shall we continue?"

"Aye," said my husband-to-be and I. Three hoods went up, three masks went on, and three styles of weapons were drawn.

As we made our way deeper into Irkngthand, the light from the magic torches gave way to the sickly blue-green of glowing mushrooms. The smell of rotting flesh and decomposing earth intensified. The further away from the surface we got, the uneasier I became. I was able to ignore it in a fight, but when we were just making our way down the empty streets, I couldn't squash the fear welling up inside me. Whispered prayers to Sheogorath, Azura, Nocturnal, my ancestors kept it at bay—but only just. It wasn't too long before we came upon yet another Falmer village—only this one, by the looks of it, held two Gloomlurkers, a Shadowlurker, some Skulkers, and the mother of all Falmer, the Shaman. I felt distinctly queasy just looking at them.

"Nocturnal's mercy!" Karliah whispered as Brynjolf muttered, "By Talos…" as I murmured, "Sheogorath's _balls."_

"Do we sneak by?" Brynjolf mused. "Or attack?"

"Too many variables to try to sneak past them all," I replied quietly. We were good, but not _that _good.

Karliah soundlessly nocked an arrow in her bow. "Keep to the Shadows, and I'll see if I can't take some out before they hear… _DAMMIT TIBERIA!"_

Karliah had shouted the last part after me as I dove into the village, spitting fire and drawing blood. Brynjolf was right behind me, hacking and slashing and never relenting. Karliah rained death upon the beasts from the Shadows, having found a decent vantage point atop one of their huts. Then came the heart-stopping moment where one Falmer got a lucky shot, slicing open Bryn's arm. I immediately descended upon it, slicing its head clean off. A few more Falmer attempted to attack us, but Karliah took them out before coming over to see what the damage was.

"I'm _fine, _lass," Brynjolf was telling me as she joined us, stubbornly waving off my concern. "Merciful Talos, you'd think I'd never been in a fight before."

I was digging around my pack, looking for the proper potions. "Falmer are too fond of poison not to worry."

He paled a bit at that, but Karliah just wordlessly handed him a Cure Poison and a Minor Healing potion. He downed both at our insistence, and we set off again. "_Honestly_ Tiberia," Karliah lamented as we made our way down a dimly lit cavern deep in the earth, "must you smash headlong into _every_ fight?"

Brynjolf answered for me. "If I told you that was a pointless question, would you catch my drift?"

Karliah sighed. "I just can't fathom how or why a Dunmer would charge headfirst into a fight."

"Once upon a time," I reminded, stealing her favorite phrase, "we elves were warriors akin to the humans." I shrugged. "Plus, I'm a Companion. My elf father and Neva taught me how to use magicka, and Avalon, the sword, but the Companions taught me how to fight."

We took care of two last Skulkers—"You fight like a child!" "Brynjolf, that's a terrible battle-taunt! _I _was more deadly than these things as a child!" "Tiberia, you're just bloody _dangerous; _you don't count!"—and made our way to the door before the Irkngthand Sanctuary. All three of us paused just before the massive bronze construct.

Mercer Frey was past this door, the monster, the murderer, the Guildmaster, the Nightingale. Greed and ambition had laid claim to his heart; he would see no pity from us. Though I would have been already, this fight _required _me to stand on the frontlines, to take down the enemy myself, or risk an eternity outside Nocturnal's favor. I would have made sure Brynjolf and Karliah were safe regardless, but having the choice of whether to risk my life or not taken away from me… I resented it. I resented Nocturnal for making me into nothing more than a pawn. I had no choice. I _hate _having no choice.

"Ty?" A familiar brogue cut into my thoughts. "You alright?"

"Eyes front; keep to the Shadows." I yanked my hood down over my eyes. As I pushed open the door, I muttered the phrase that would guide the Guild for a generation: "Shadows hide us, Talos guide us."


	66. Freyed Edges

**Hey all! Here's the big one everyone's been waiting for. I was unhappy with the way this quest is in-game, so there's your warning.**

**As always, thanks to all you fabulous readers, lurkers, and reviewers :) Much obliged.**

**And the non-PM crew:**

**Lyriel: I've never been fond of Bethesda's dwarves, and the whole Falmer thing just made me that much more certain.**

**Onward.**

**-)**

The Irkngthand Sanctuary was a large, cavernous chamber, lit by bronze magicka once more, as well as those eerie glowing mushrooms up towards the high ceiling. We stood on a ledge just inside the door, and two sets of stairs led down either side and onto the floor below. Bronze pipes twisted every which way in the ceiling, and I realized we must be under Lake Yorgrim. Another set of stairs led up the arm of a colossus sitting across from us, the infamous Statue of Irkngthand. A Snow Elf—not Falmer, but Snow Elf—sat cross legged, one hand resting on his knee and holding a book, the other bearing a torch to light his path, clad in a kilt and shirtless but for a sash across his chest. And hanging from its eyebrow, prying the eyes out of the statue, was the infamous Mercer Frey himself.

"Brynjolf, guard the door," Karliah murmured to him, never taking her eyes off Mercer. "Tiberia, get ready for the fight of your life. I don't think he's seen us yet…"

"Karliah, when will you learn you can't get the drop on me?" boomed Mercer from across the way, swinging lithely from the statue's face and landing easily on its collar.

Magicka emanated from his pores in that moment, black and purple and straight from Oblivion. The place shook and rocks fell from the ceiling, while a negligible amount of water was seeping in through cracks in the floor. The ledge on which I stood collapsed, sending me to the floor and trapping Bryn and Karliah in the doorframe. (Ah well, at least they were out of the way.) Mercer, meanwhile, strolled down the stairs of the statue as though he had not a care in the world, and made his way to the book in the Snow Elf's hand. It was from here that he addressed me.

"When Brynjolf brought you before me, I could feel a sudden shift in the wind," Mercer growled, suddenly sounding like I did before a battle—half mad, half determined. "At that moment, I knew it would end with one of us at the end of a blade."

"You've had your turn," I called back, all bravado. "Now it's mine."

Mercer snorted despite himself. "I see the three of you wear the Armor of the Nightingale. What's Karliah been filling your heads with, eh? Tales of thieves with _honor?" _He spat the very word I lived my life for as though it was poison. "Oaths rife with falsehoods and broken promises?" He sounded so very bitter. "Nocturnal doesn't care about you, the Key, or anything having to do with the Guild!"

"Of course she doesn't!" I replied with a snort, and Mercer looked taken aback. When Karliah and Brynjolf said nothing as well, I added, "Oh come now, you all didn't think she really cared, did you? Loved you unconditionally?" At the silence, I slammed a palm into my forehead. "People, she's a _Daedra. _Not an Aedra. They do not _give _love, you must earn it."

"Tell me then, Tiberia," Mercer growled, "are you my replacement?" I nodded, and he actually laughed, a hollow and derisive sound. "Our actions have always been one and the same, how fitting. We lie, we cheat, and we steal to further our own end."

"But I still have honor."

"Ah, that's right. You still hold the misguided belief in honor among thieves. How quaint. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to be so naïve."

"Naïveté is not the same thing as integrity," Karliah snarled.

"Piss off, Indigo," Mercer barked, and the words had the ring of an old phrase. "I'll deal with you next."

"There is more courage in the Guild, Mercer Frey, than there is among the Companions," I growled, my deadly alto rising to fill the carnivorous room. "More integrity than among the Stormcloak Rebellion, the Imperial Legion, the rising Blades, and the College of Winterhold. There is more nobility within the Ratway than in the Jarls' Courts and the Great Houses of Morrowind. There _is_ honor among thieves, Mercer. I have seenit."

"Perhaps," he said with a shrug, lazily testing the weight of his steel dagger, "but you're just an unwilling Nightingale. I can see it in your eyes. You _pity _me." He sounded offended.

"Mercer, it is possible to separate man from monster. I know; I do it every day." The Beast Blood, a blessing and yet a curse. "You deserve no more _pity…" _I spat the word. "…than a feral werewolf." I drew the blades at my hips, Dawnbreaker and the Ebony Sword of the Blaze. "And you will be treated as such."

"Then the die is cast." He drew his own Dwarven blade to match his dagger. "And my blade will once again taste Nightingale blood!"

Once more the ground shook as Oblivion magic emanated from Mercer. Above me, I heard Bryn and Karliah draw their weapons, and their battle cries resound… but when I glanced up, I realized they were trying not to attack _each other. _Mercer, the Agent of Subterfuge…? No, that wasn't right. He was Strife. He shouldn't have been able to turn Brynjolf and Karliah on each other. …Wait, the _Key_. He must have stolen our powers when he went rogue. And, as if the fight on the ledge weren't enough to prove to me he'd stolen Karliah and Gallus' powers, he then dropped into a crouch and completely disappeared. "Fetcher!" I barked.

"Who said I fought fair?" came a voice from somewhere ahead of me.

"S'wit," I muttered under my breath, readying my swords. (The more frazzled I get, the more my language tends to fall into Dunmeris.) "You utter s'wit." I knew I had a Shout for Detect Life, the Aura Whisper, but for the life of me, I couldn't think of it.

I heard Mercer's footsteps coming toward me, and I held up my swords to fend off the oncoming blow. The resounding clang of metal-on-metal told me I had, mercifully, blocked him… this time. This was stupid; what was that damn Shout?! I was running across the watery floor now, trying to work out where Mercer could be. He would cause ripples in the water if he set his foot down in…

"_NCHOW!" _I howled as Mercer struck again—only this time, I hadn't seen or heard him coming. I dropped Dawnbreaker as he struck, as he'd sliced clean through the tendon in my wrist. He must've hit me with his Dwarven sword; it had an enchantment on it (I know, I_ forged _the bloody thing) that would cause such extra pain. Gah, my right hand was now useless, I had only my left, possibly some magicka. And to top it all off, I now remembered the Shout. "_LAAS YAH NIR!"_

A red, ethereal form was pulsating just ahead of me—I'd barked the right shout, at least. I flew it at, and though I only managed a short slash at his back, it was enough to shock him out of invisibility. He attacked me in earnest now, his flailing, spiraling style just as vicious as it had been in Snow-Veil, in those sparring fights we'd gotten into when I was an initiate. Problem was, I was a dual-swordswoman put at a distinct disadvantage with my right hand out of commission. I mean, I'm more or less ambidextrous in swordplay at this point, but I always have at least dagger in my other hand. It hung limp and decidedly useless at my side at the moment. Mercer was in my guard now, my sword out of the way, my right hand unable to draw upon my magicka, the Thu'um still building back up in my soul. And so I used the only weapon I had left: the Talons. I may not have been able to hold a sword, but I could still claw his eyes out, dammit.

But I never got that far.

As I raked his face with the talons and Mercer flinched backwards out of my range, the Talons came into contact with his blood. And when that happened, time seemed to stand still. All sounds stopped, my physical aches disappeared, and it reminded me vaguely of stepping into Vaermina's Dreamstride. The world disappeared behind me, and suddenly…

_I was standing back in the Cistern. Only, this wasn't the present-day Cistern; this one was lavishly furnished, and full of people. And it wasn't me standing there—not my body, anyway. This one was taller, broader, more muscular. All its parts worked together as a seamless whole, but it was fit together differently than mine was. Plus, the skin was white-pink. _Definitely_ not mine. Then it dawned on me—I was in Mercer's memory. This was _his _body, his Cistern, his mind. I was just a parasite; he was doing the living._

_He was talking to a much-younger Delvin Mallory (I'm guessing, since Delvin was around twenty-five, so was the Mercer whose body I was interloping in). "…And I just don't know _what _she sees in 'im…"_

_Mercer—I?—followed his line of sight across the Cistern to where a young, slender-yet-stocky Nordic woman was talking to a large brute of a Nord man. She wore the black armor of a Higher Operative, her brown hair was pulled back just at the crown of her head, and her eyes were an astute, emerald green. The man wore the brown armor of a Junior Member, was easily as large as Farkas or Vilkas, and his hair was a brilliant, fiery red-orange. They had an easy conversation going, probably about their latest heists. Mercer didn't particularly care about impressing Juri of Solitude, though; there was only one woman whose opinion mattered… _

"_Well, Delvin," came a smoothly accented voice from over Mercer's shoulder, "if you're the competition, she doesn't really _need_ to see much in Ceylon."_

…_Karliah. "Piss off, Indigo," Mercer barked by means of greeting. Some things, I guess, just never change._

"'_Fraid I can't, Old Man," she replied, now in his line of sight and smiling. "Gallus has a job for us to do…" _

I was snapped back into reality as though nothing had happened. Mercer was reeling from my scratch attack, and my right wrist was throbbing painfully. I shook off the daze of Mercer's memory, and focused on the attack. I readied my sword again and we began to thrust and parry, to lunge and fall back. Mercer was an indomitable foe; but then again, so was I. He had his dagger too close to my throat for my liking, and so, half out of curiosity, half out of self-preservation, I scratched at his arm with the Talons again. He snapped back, and I was thrust into his memory again.

_Mercer was laughing and harassing Ceylon as they trekked through the Ratway. The larger man had just successfully opened a courtship with Juri of Solitude (much to Delvin's chagrin), and so they'd been out drinking to celebrate. Mercer wasn't nearly as drunk as the Nord—which he found odd, given how high a tolerance Nords have for that sort of thing. It was late at night, and so when they entered the Flagon, neither expected anyone to be in it. But there was Karliah, plain as day… only something was wrong._

"_Indigo?" Mercer called uneasily, immediately at her side. She was crying into her hand, a letter clutched in the other. "Karliah, what's wrong?"_

_She wordlessly handed him the letter, and Mercer automatically put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her into a sort of half-embrace. He waved Ceylon off with the other hand, and the Nord took the hint. His brow furrowed as he began to read the letter, only to have it spring back up in shock. Karliah's mother, Dralsi Indoril, had just passed on; the letter was actually from Ceylon's brother in Falkreath. She had stumbled upon the Clan, battered, bruised, and bleeding, and had died shortly after._

_Mercer knew Karliah; actually, he knew her very well by the appearance of his memory. It seemed to skip a bit, and then the two were standing on the shores of Lake Honrich in, by the looks of things, the middle of Evening Star. Mercer held her in a tight embrace, and Karliah was sobbing into his chest. "She… she's gone, Mercer. Just gone. I can't…" Karliah's speech was punctuated with hiccupping sobs. "She's the only one who cared about me, and she's _gone."

"_You know, that's kind of a sucker punch for the guy standing in the snow in the middle of Morning Star so you can cry in peace."_

_Karliah looked up at him now, a watery smile through her tears. She knew he meant that in jest (and yet didn't…). "I'm sorry, Old Man." She winced. "You know I didn't mean it like that."_

"_I know," Mercer agreed, his mind only half on their conversation. The other half couldn't get over how close her face was. _Kiss her_, urged the darkness in the corner of his mind. It had been there ever since he'd accidentally touched the Skeleton Key at his induction into the Nightingales. But he pushed it down, squashed it into a box in the corner of his mind. Now wasn't the time for that… no matter how much he wanted it to be. "Just trying to make you smile."_

_She smiled thinly. "You're such a good friend, Mercer…"_

Boom, back in Irkngthand. Mercer was staring at me curiously, though, as though he knew about the imposition on his thoughts. I think he might have known, given that look, but I guess I'll never truly know. "YOL TOOR SHUL!" I barked, just to feel like myself again.

Mercer was out of the way of the brunt of the Shout, but he was still singed enough to curse me, and my ancestors on top of that. Dragon's fire is some powerful shit. We began to lock and disengage blades again, and almost without my intent, the Talons raked his arm.

_His memory couldn't seem to decide on which to settle. His induction into the Nightingales, under the new Guildmaster, Gallus? Smashing some fetcher into Oblivion alongside Ceylon for propositioning Karliah and Juri in the Bee and Barb? Sparring practice with Gunther, the Nord who was Guildmaster before Gallus? His appointment to Second-in-Command? The first time he saw Gallus and Karliah together, after the fact, and how happy the Guildmaster made her? Getting dumped in Lake Honrich by Gunther on Sheogorath's Summoning Day? Listening to Juri of Solitude tell Karliah how the whole damn Guild knew Mercer fancied her… why not give the poor Breton a chance? I realized, these memories weren't in any particular order, and therefore something was sifting through them, bringing me the important ones. My first thought was Nocturnal, but she wanted Mercer dead. She wouldn't care about me understanding him. The roulette finally settled on this one:_

_A worried-looking Juri of Solitude and even-more-worried-looking Ceylon were deep in conversation with Mercer (who was now a Senior member) and Karliah (who was the _other_ Senior Member) in the Ratway. "…And I'm fairly certain I'm pregnant," Juri was saying._

"_Why, that's wonderful news!" Karliah exclaimed, and Mercer nodded in agreement. "Why are you worried?"_

"_The Cistern is no place to raise a child, and Gallus will hardly allow his Second to disappear," Juri hissed. "This wasn't supposed to happen!"_

"_Weren't you drinking Moon Tea?" Karliah asked._

"_No… Karliah, I can't afford _that."

"_Juri, I'd have brewed it for you!" Karliah exclaimed. "Gods above, what do you take me for? A High Elf!?" Juri was visibly surprised. "Well, I suppose it's too late now. I'm not giving you abortifacients…"_

"_Never!" Juri exclaimed, automatically bringing one arm before her stomach._

"_Mercer, Karliah," Ceylon interrupted, "would the two of you be willing to escort us to Falkreath? There's no one else to ask…"_

"_Of course," Mercer said at once. "But it'll have to be a clean break. Gallus is not going to be happy…" _But you will_, whispered the darkness in his mind. _All the way back, it'll be just you and Karliah…_ He told it to shut up and mind its own damn business._

It was getting harder and harder to snap back out of Mercer's memory and get back into the fight. It was getting even harder to reconcile the murdering, betraying Guildmaster with the strong, honest young man in his memory. What had happened to distort him so? It was as Karliah said: he wasn't always this way. The mystery was only deepened by his next memory, one that he clearly cherished:

_It was Evening Star, and the Guild was readying itself to play Scar or Story. They sent Delvin topside to find Cynric, Ceylon _somewhere _to find Juri, and Mercer off to find Karliah. Mercer knew exactly where the Dunmer would be: the training room. And lo and behold, he found her there, shooting bulls eyes with her trusty Nightingale Bow. "Karliah, you _do_ realize it's New Life?" Mercer called sardonically by means of greeting. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across his broad chest. "You can put down the bow once in a while." Never mind that his own sword weighed heavily on his hip—Chillrend, the Frey Family blade. Somehow or another, Honorhall had received it along with the child._

"_I know." She smiled sheepishly. "I'm not looking forward to Scar or Story this year. Not in a mood to talk about my past, I guess."_

_Mercer shrugged. "So get drunk."_

_She laughed as she hung her bow on the weapons rack and made her way over to him. Mercer half-turned to leave with her, and felt something collide gently with the back of his head. He turned fully to identify the projectile, and realized some idiot—probably Ceylon or Delvin—had tied mistletoe up there. He turned back to Karliah to make some crack about dumbass Guildmates, but found her blushing furiously. He then put two and two together._

_Neither of them said anything, but Mercer put a questioning hand to the side of her face, asking in their silent way if she was okay with it. Karliah just closed her eyes, and nodded once. _Go on, _urged the darkness in the corner of Mercer's mind. _You'll never have another opportunity so perfect._ For once, he didn't tell it to shut up._

_Mercer drew her into his arms, one hand just naturally finding the small of her back, the other firmly resolved to stay on her face, and he kissed her, gently, softly. He didn't intend on it lasting more than a moment, but when Karliah's arms locked around his neck, he could hardly help himself from deepening it. They stayed that way a while longer (Mercer quickly lost track of time), and when they broke apart, Karliah was just staring up at him with those unnatural indigo eyes. Weren't Dunmer supposed to have red eyes? "Mercer…!" she murmured, surprise evident. Never had his name sounded so welcome as it had on her lips (which, coincidentally, he wouldn't mind kissing again)._

_But instead, he smirked and winked sarcastically—"Happy New Life, Karliah."—and disappeared back into the Cistern, terrified of what he'd just done, and yet overjoyed._

I was more of a mind to hug the man than stab him at this point, but the Mercer in his memory wasn't the one standing before me trying to impale me on a blade _I'd _forged for him.Gods above, what had distorted him so? He had broken Juri and Ceylon out of the Guild to raise Raynor (and later Brynjolf) in peace; why would he murder the son? He loved Karliah—truly loved her; why would he blame Gallus' death on her? Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing but the blade in my hand. Nothing but the resolve in my mind: I would kill Mercer Frey, as much for Nocturnal's anger and my vengeance, as for his freedom. Almost without thought, I began my spiraling power attack, only to realize too late I had no blade in my right hand, only the Nightingale's Talons. They left welts on his cheek.

_This Mercer was different from the others I'd piggybacked. This one was older, harsher, more powerful. His bones creaked and his body ached now, but the Skeleton Key was keeping him virile. This was the Guildmaster, the rogue Nightingale. The Darkness that had once whispered in a corner of his mind now shouted openly. The brightness that was Mercer Frey, the young man from the memories previous, was no more—it had been swallowed by the Darkness, shoved in a corner and left to die._

"_Mercer, this is our newest recruit," Brynjolf greeted. Gods, he looked so much like Ceylon, only slightly less rugged. But with Juri's intelligence, Juri's eyes, Juri's talent for larceny—and Ceylon's brutal honesty._

"_The assassin-killer," Mercer confirmed, folding his arms across his chest to get a good look at this recruit. "Brynjolf, I hope you know what you're doing. She hasn't even run a job for the Guild yet."_

_This recruit was… well, me, as Mercer saw it. A young, slender Dark Elf woman, eyes burning with characteristic Dunmeri fire. Twin swords were at her hips, hair was back in a Nordic braid, and a distinct aura was about her that just screamed danger. No, not an aura—her very soul thrummed with a dangerous energy. All-in-all, she was not unlike someone else he once knew, another Dark Elf. _The Murderess, _growled the Darkness. _

Your friend, _whispered the Brightness that had once been Mercer Frey. He was only half paying attention to the conversation with Brynjolf and this recruit—Tiberia, he said her name was? "A__lright, Bryn. If you think she's worth it, induct the woman and put her to work already."_

_As Mercer padded back over to his desk, the usual war raged in his mind. _She was a traitor, _hissed the Darkness. _She was your friend, _insisted the Brightness. _Maybe even might have been more… _But she chose Gallus. In the end, she'd chosen Gallus._ Return the Key, beg Nocturnal's forgiveness, _implored the Brightness. Mercer dug his thumb and forefinger into his temples, trying to cancel out this constant headache with some external pain._

Silence, you fool, _howled the Darkness._ The Key brings you wealth, the Key brings you glory…

_The key lost me Karliah, Mercer reminded it. He glanced up to see Brynjolf and Tiberia cracking jokes in an easy, back-and-forth rhythm. Mercer had the distinct feeling that those two would end up together, and if they didn't, there was something just flat-out wrong with the gods. The Darkness was angry, but the Brightness, quiet and squashed as it was, wished them the best of luck. Better than his, anyway._

Ah, there was the Mercer I knew. The angry one, the one attempting to stab me now that I was back in my own body. To me, the fight felt like it was taking hours, but it could have hardly been a few minutes since we'd started. I suddenly had this blade by the crossguard, and, seizing the opportunity, disarmed him. I had Mercer trapped against the wall, his sword lying in the water, his dagger utterly useless against my armor. I held the blade of my sword up to his throat.

"Why?" I couldn't help but ask. There were so many questions, so many things that just didn't make sense.

"Why not?" he replied, slamming an uppercut into my stomach.

I slashed him across the face with my ebony sword for that, before tossing it to the side and pinning him to the wall by the throat with my left hand in one quick, fluid movement. He had nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, no way to break free of my iron grip. Not even the Skeleton Key could save him now. "This is for Raynor," I growled, and I plunged my taloned hand into his chest, right over where his heart should be. Blood rushed out of the sudden would, bathing the claws in it.

_Snow-Veil Sanctum, what was so gods-damned important about Snow-Veil Sanctum? They'd been at this all day, all three Nightingales, fighting through hordes of draugr in the damnable crypt. Gallus and Karliah every so often sneaking a moment when they thought Mercer wasn't looking. And he wasn't, but he would turn back to say something and find them embracing and it was like razors to his heart. They were deep in the ruins now, the draugr so thick it was as though they were battling an entire army._

_Mercer was distracted, not in his right mind. That's how a higher-level draugr (Tiberia had called this kind an Overlord, his more current memory filled in) managed to disarm him with a Shout. Chillrend went flying, too far away to help him now. Mercer snatched a ruined sword off a dead (re-dead?) draugr and plunged it into his attacker, felling it as he yanked the blade out again. Mercer tore across the way, snatching up Chillrend as he did so, hurling away the ruined Nord sword. He heard footsteps behind him, and whirled to face another attacker, lunging as he did so._

_But it wasn't a draugr—it was Gallus._

"_Desidenius!" Mercer yelped, horrified at what he'd done, frantically searching his pockets for a healing potion. Damn his ineptitude at the Restoration School!_

"_Mercer!" Karliah's shrill voice resounded throughout the cavern. "What have you done!?"_

"_It was an accident, I swear to Talos….!"_

"_He's _dead _you fool!" Karliah screeched, falling to her knees beside the Imperial. She put an ear to his chest, and fully burst into tears a moment later. "You murdered him! Muredered him in cold blood, like some… _traitor!"

"_No! I swear, I…!" Mercer was on the brink of tears himself. Getting screamed at like this was uncomfortably close to being six years old again, new to Honorhall, getting screamed at by Grelod the Kind._

"_I will _kill _you!" Karliah howled, drawing her bow as she did so. The Dunmer drive for revenge had taken over; she wasn't in her right mind._

"_Shut UP!" Mercer roared, but the command had not come from him. It had come from the Darkness. "Just shut up!" Distraught and not in control, he lashed out with his most powerful weapon—Nightingale Strife. The force of the blow sent the slight Dark Elf flying, and her life energy was greedily consumed by Mercer's ever-growing anger. The Darkness made him turn on heel and stalk out of the ruins, but not before a certain Dark Elf had sent an arrow into his back. Her aim was off, given her distress and sudden loss of life energy, but she still managed to sink one into his back, right where his heart should be. _

_And as Mercer Frey ran from Snow-Veil, the Darkness whispered in his ear, telling him all the right things to say, all the right things to do. So when he walked into the Cistern a week later, battered, bruised, bloodied, and hollow-eyed, Mercer knew exactly what to do. The Darkness had shown him. It was his best friend, his only friend. Why had he ever tried to squash it? Even as he recounted the story, Mercer and the Darkness were formulating a plan for the ultimate revenge—on the Guild, on Gallus, on the world, on Nocturnal, but most of all, on Karliah._

"…_She killed him in cold blood, just stabbed the Guildmaster. I don't even know why. Tried to kill me too. Ran me out of the ruins; I couldn't…"_

_They played right into his hands. _

I yanked my hand out of his chest, taking his still-beating heart with me. I brought it up between our faces, glaring at him over the bloody organ. Funny, I would think it would have been a black, corroded thing by now, but instead, it was just as healthy as it should have been. And just before the lights left his sharp, grey eyes, I crushed it in my taloned hand, despite my arm screaming out in pain. Blood splattered on my face, on his, and Mercer whispered, "Shadows take me…" just before he fell lifelessly from my grasp. The man, the myth, the monster was no more. I tossed away the heart in disgust.

Instantly, his hold over Brynjolf and Karliah was broken, and both jumped off the ledge to join me, heedless of their own safety. I ignored them for the moment, instead yanking Mercer's Dwarven sword from the ground and hurling it with all my might at the far wall. It snapped and shattered upon contact. Feeling marginally better, I began searching through his pockets, looking for all the important things. I paused my search to chug one of his major healing potions, and immediate relief was sent to my right arm. I felt the tendon knit itself back together, and I flexed the limb experimentally to make sure it still worked properly. It did

Turns out, the Right and Left Eyes of the Falmer were strangely light for their size, and Mercer kept multiple other gemstones on his person. (The latter I took merely out of spite.) I found the Skeleton Key, a beautiful piece of Daedric Craftsmanship. Jagged key-teeth were attached to a glowing blue knob by a thin metal rod, but the thing itself made me pause. This artifact reeked of Oblivion, of Madness, of Daedric Magic. No mortal would be able to touch it without going at least a little mad. (No wonder Mercer gave in to his "Darkness"…) I picked it up with the talons, wrapping it in Mercer's bracer, before stashing it, alongside everything else, in my various pockets. "Lass, we need to go _now." _

Brynjolf brought me sharply back to Nirn. It took me a moment to realize he was holding both my blades out to me (which I quickly took and sheathed), and then, it took me another to realize that sometime between the end of the fight and my search of Mercer, the pipes had broken. Too many times shaken by Oblivion, I would assume. The cavern was quickly filling with water. Soon it would be over our heads, and the door up there, I quickly learned, wouldn't open.

"You take Mercer's grappling hook," I said, tossing the thing to Brynjolf, "and get Karliah out of here. There's a cave up there." I gestured to the ceiling, where the bronze pipes had broken, and a small opening had been smashed in the process.

"Tiberia, I'm not leaving without you!"

"Brynjolf, I'm the _Dragonborn. _I can Shout my way out of here." I hoped. "_GO!"_

The cave was rapidly filling with water, even as Bryn and Karliah climbed to the Snow Elf's collar and hoisted themselves up and out of the cavern, leaving me in the growing darkness. I climbed to the top of its head, making me just about level with the cave opening. I only had one shot at this; I'm a terrible swimmer.

I drew in breath, and barked, "_WULD NAH!" _praying that two words would be enough.

The Thu'um shot me forward, and I landed precariously on the lip of the cavern. But even as I fell back, Bryn and Karliah yanked me forward, and it was like this that we three ran through the bronze-piped cave, the water lapping at our heels. We burst out of the cavern and onto the shores of Lake Yorgrim just as the sun was setting,

Karliah collapsed to the ground, and Bryn and I went with her, on either side. "Twenty-five years," she murmured. "Twenty-five years in exile and now…" She shook her head. "Tiberia, did you get the Key?"

I nodded, and even as I did so, absurd, unearthly laughter began to bubble up from my very soul. I'd done it; _we'd _done it. Mercer Frey was dead, the Guild avenged, Nocturnal appeased, and things would soon be set right. Karliah and Brynjolf were laughing with me, each sounding as half-mad and half-relieved as I did. Karliah had an arm around each of her Nightingale siblings, and we stayed like this until long after the sun had set, and the moons were ascendant.


	67. Career Criminals

**Happy Halloween all you wonderful people! :3 have a chapter to celebrate.**

**And the Non-PM crew:**

**Lyriel: Mercer just doesn't seem like the type to me to throw away his life over greed.**

**Onward:**

**-)**

The Nightgate Inn was one of those in the middle of nowhere (like Old Hroldan and The Stumbling Sabrecat) that made me bless and yet question its existence at the same time. Who in their right mind would build an inn out here? Eh, regardless, just above the shores of Lake Yorgrim was the Nightgate, and Bryn, Karliah, and I were exhausted. I was not about to question the existence of a bed out of the snow.

We three exhausted thieves entered the inn and were immediately greeted by the innkeeper, who seemed shocked to have actual patrons. Karliah went over to inquire about rooms, and just before I started to follow, a figure came up from the cellar stairs behind the bar—a figure dressed in black-and-red hooded armor, with a glass blade at its hip, skin a familiar grey-blue, and a dull red tattoo on an exposed arm.

In other words, the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood herself.

"Merciful Talos, you've _got _to be joking," Brynjolf growled, immediately drawing both axes. Karliah took the hint and hopped up on a nearby table, drawing her bow back to full extension. I called on my magicka—too much damn effort to lift a blade.

Avalon's brow furrowed. "Cousin Karliah, you can put the bow down; I'm not going to hurt you. And Brynjolf? That has to be you; no one else has got a brogue that thick on this side of Skyrim. And, as if I didn't already know, the Bond is telling me that's my little sister!" Her face broke out into a genuine smile, and she had to stop herself from coming over to me.

"Avalon?" Karliah was shocked. "So the rumors are true…"

"You'll find that happens more often than not, Karliah." Avalon shrugged. "Just know I'm Listener now, and _not going to murder my own sister thanks!"_ Avalon shot Brynjolf a venomous look, which he returned in kind.

A thud from behind the counter alerted us that the innkeeper had fainted. "Whoops," Avalon said, her face contorting as she went over to make sure the man was alright. "That seems to happen to Morwyns a lot, 'ey Ty?"

"So what _are _you doing here, Avalon?" I asked, cancelling my spells and padding over to her. (Brynjolf was not happy about that move.)

"I had another contract," she said with a shrug, straightening up from her crouch and brushing her hands off on her armor. "I'm actually forbidden from anything involving yours—Brotherhood rules."

Karliah didn't sheathe her bow, but she did lower it a tad. "So there is truly a contract on Tiberia's head?"

Avalon nodded sadly. "Yes, for the Dragonborn. It's pretty much split the Brotherhood down the middle. Some say a contract's a contract's a contract. It is our sacred duty to carry them out. That's Astrid and Arnbjorn, Babette, and Festus Krex." She sighed. "Others say, this one isn't right; something's fishy. Gabriella doesn't want to get involved, says she ran from Morrowind to escape House politics and is not about to rejoin them. And, Ty, you'll be happy to hear that Veezara and Cicero want nothing to do with this one, either. They won't kill you; they fought alongside you in the Battle for Riften!" Avalon sighed. "So that's an even split, for, against, and indifferent. No one's sure _what _to do."

I remembered something important. "But Astrid's in charge."

Avalon shifted uneasily. "Well, yes, technically."

"So what Astrid says goes," Karliah surmised pointedly.

Something dangerous flashed in Avalon's eyes. "Not if the Night Mother has anything to say about it."

"The Night Mother," I said, leaning against the bar, "or her mouthpiece."

Avalon snorted. "You know me so well, Tiberia. So very well."

I tapped my hip pointedly. "I should."

Avalon snorted and threw up her hood. "Ta-ta for now, Little Sister. May the next time we meet not require your fiancé to pull his axes on me." She must have seen the shocked expression on my face, because she added, "Tiberia, I have been living in Falkreath Hold for the last six months. Do you _really _think I don't know what that ring on your hand means?" And with that, the Middle Morwyn Sister vanished out the door and into the night.

"I always liked Avalon," Karliah said as she sheathed her bow, breaking the settling silence. "More so than Neva, anyway."

"Lass, I think _everyone _prefers Avalon to Neva," Brynjolf told her. "Let's be realistic, here."

I shot him a look. "Then did you _have _to draw a blade on her? _Honestly!"_

"Hey, now! Until there's no longer a contract on your head, any Brotherhood assassin is an enemy of mine. Sorry lass, but I'm not going to lose you again."

"Can the two of you stop bickering?" Karliah interrupted, tossing Bryn a key. "Honestly, Brynjolf, you're worse than your father in that respect."

"We're not _bickering," _I snorted, "we're _negotiating_."

"What are you, a senator?" Brynjolf smirked, and we three Nightingales disappeared off to bed.

Or at least, we were supposed to.

I think being around Brynjolf and me reminded Karliah of a lot of things she'd rather forget, and so she left enough gold on the innkeeper's counter (he was still out cold) for two rooms. For the longest time, Bryn and I just lay in darkness, content with the other's presence. Delving into Irkngthand had rattled us both, and I knew there was something he wanted to say.

"Go on," I mumbled without opening my eyes. "I know there's something you are just dying to ask."

The answer was a long time coming, and in fact, I was beginning to wonder if I'd spoken to a sleeping room. "You've been hollow-eyed ever since the fight, Ty," Brynjolf finally murmured. "What happened down there?"

I sighed. "Those talons on my bracer… The Right Hand of Nocturnal… Bryn, I was in Mercer's _memory. _I watched him fall from the light, let the darkness consume him. Felt Karliah reject him, and saw Mercer accidentally—and yes, it _was _an accident—kill Gallus. I saw him break your parents out of the Guild, and…" Another sigh. "You know how when you have a letter that you fold and unfold and refold so many times because you want to re-read it that it gets soft and sort of tattered around the edges?"

"…Aye?" Bryn had no idea where I was going with this.

"If it's possible to do that to a memory, Mercer did. I re-lived that one too, and by _Talos!" _I was shaking from the intensity of Mercer's memory. "I never thought I'd say it, not after he left me to die in Snow-Veil and murdered half the Guild over the years, but Azura take me if I don't pity Mercer Frey!"

"How is that even…?" Bryn let out an exhausted breath. "Well, what was the memory, Tiberia?"

I wanted to see his reaction to this, so I opened my eyes and shifted to face him (turns out, he'd been gazing at me the whole time). "Mercer kissed Karliah once, under the mistletoe during New Life…"

Brynjolf let out a barking laugh. "Classic."

"…And he never forgot every last detail. Why? He was Guildmaster, a Master Thief, feared and respected by all of Skyrim, possibly all of Tamriel. Why is _that _the memory he held so close to his heart?"

"I dunno lass, it makes a lot of sense to me. Some of my favorite memories have been with you."

"But not all of them."

"No, not all. I had a life before I met you, you know."

"Exactly! I just… can't piece it together."

"Some things in life we're just not meant to." Bryn kissed my forehead. "But talk to Karliah. She may be able to…"

"That's it!" I exclaimed, suddenly sitting bolt upright and accidently clocking Bryn in the jaw. I kissed his forehead, benediction-style. "Brynjolf! You're a genius!"

"Can I get that in writing?" he called jokingly while rubbing his jawline. I disappeared from our room (weird thought, right there…) then, taking the Talons with me.

My sudden outburst was subdued in the quiet darkness of the communal room. The innkeeper was back awake now, rubbing at his head and looking a tad bewildered. I waved sheepishly to him as I padded across the room, and then knocked on Karliah's door. "Come in," murmured a voice thick with the Mournhold accent.

I pushed open the thin wood to find Karliah sitting on the cot in the darkness, wide-awake, her Nightingale Armor neatly folded at her bedside. I shut the door (and shut out the light) as she asked, "What can I do for you, Cousin?"

I drew in a breath, absentmindedly tapping the flat of the bracer with my opposite hand. I decided to start fairly innocuously. "I was just wondering, Cousin. What was Mercer like when he first joined ranks?"

She sat back, chewing on her lower lip in thought. "Mercer Frey was… well, a lot like he was when you knew him. Brash, sarcastic, hard-edged, and angry. But he was also…" She seemed to struggle to find a word. "…Well, Mercer back then wasn't always an angry git. Sometimes, the man was downright sweet. Thoughtful in an off-the-wall sort of way. Why do you ask?"

I sighed, and gave up. "These." I held up the Talons. "I was in his memory, and I think these are why."

Her brow furrowed. "Nocturnal doesn't deal in memory; that's Vaermina's realm. Could you have tapped into the…"

"I've been in the Dreamstride, and no, this is nothing like it. Don't even think about it."

Karliah held up both hands in a placating gesture. "Be at peace, sister elf; I'm only trying to make sense of it myself. Nocturnal made you her right hand to kill Mercer Frey… she wouldn't care about whether you understand him or not."

"My thoughts exactly. Why would she bother tossing me into his memory?"

Karliah shrugged. "Some things in life we're just not meant to know."

"Is that a Guild thing? Because Bryn says that all the time, and so does Delvin, and I find it annoying."

"Not a Guild thing, no; just a Ceylon thing. Some would joke he said it because he was rather unintelligent, but most saw the wisdom in it." A silence began to settle over us, and so Karliah asked, "Which of Mercer's memories did you see, Tiberia?"

"Most of them were from his early years in the Guild." I paused, then figured I might as well dump it all in her lap now. "And I think all of them had to do with you, Karliah."

"Understandable, given that he and I were like partners…"

"I meant on a personal level, not a business one."

"…Oh!" She flushed scarlet under the blue-grey.

And that's when I started piecing it together. "And there was one that I could tell he held close to his heart." I paused to square up to her gaze. "And I think you know exactly what it is."

"Tiberia, there are so many things about Old Man that I simply do not know…"

"Think, Cousin. It isn't hard."

For a moment, there was only silence, then Karliah sighed. "New Life, wasn't it? That one damnable New Life…"

I nodded, arms folded against my chest as I leaned against the doorframe. "Colleagues don't kiss like that."

"And I can control Mercer Frey, now can I?" She was fighting me back, covering something.

"No, but you can damn well control how _you _react. Mercer wasn't _that _bad at reading the signs; you confused the shit out of him."

Karliah flung up her hands. "I'm done talking about this with you."

"Then who _will _you speak to then, eh? Ceylon, Juri, Raynor, Gallus…?"

A tear came flying down her face, then two, then three, and then all of a sudden she was silently crying in earnest. "Shut _up, _you miserable s'wit! You speak of things you cannot know."

"_Do_ not know," I corrected lightly.

Karliah pressed her forehead against her knees, which were drawn up against her chest, and so her next statement was muffled. "Say I did love Mercer Frey. Say I did kiss him back. What difference does it make? He betrayed Nocturnal; he betrayed the Guild; he betrayed Gallus; and he betrayed you. The coldest Void of Oblivion is too good for him."

"I knew it," I murmured softly. "_He _knew it."

"And he did _nothing."_

"Karliah, Mercer was _shy! _He put a confident front because he was good at what he did, but you take him out of a job setting and he had _no idea _how to handle himself.Merciful Talos, ever wonder why someone's exterior is such an armored shell? I guarantee you it's because the inside is soft and vulnerable."

"Just like you," Karliah growled.

"There isn't enough sentiment left in me to _be_ vulnerable," I snapped back.

She jerked her head up. "And how did you reach this conclusion, eh? You can't have seen that many memories."

"He's just like Vilkas…" I said quietly, and then, I realized something:

Karliah had only done what was natural, what was normal. Wait and see what someone else is going to do, at least in this arena. And when nothing happened, she moved on. Simple. I had done it myself a time or two before. Granted, my former flames hadn't turned into homicidal traitors Oblivion-bent on the destruction of my Guild and my religion—but then, my life had enough problems; Azura was probably just taking pity on me.

"…And he didn't want to see you hurt," I finished.

"Mercer? Not likely."

"Karliah, the Skeleton Key drove him _mad." _Trying to make her understand wasn't going to be easy. "He touched it by accident upon his induction into the Nightingales, and it didn't leave him alone for the rest of his life. There was this… this _darkness _in his mind, always whispering, always suggesting things."

"Right," Karliah snorted. "Like Nocturnal didn't have better things to do than drive Mercer Frey mad."

"I'm telling you what I know, Cousin."

The family title seemed to snap her back to her senses. "That would have been just like Mercer…" she sighed. "Not telling me the Daedra were driving him mad because he knew _I _believed."

There was a deep silence, then, one that no words seemed to be able to penetrate.

"So how does Gallus fit into this?" I finally asked.

Karliah sighed. "He told me later that he kept waiting for Mercer to say something, to do something, _start _something. But he never did. And so Gallus took the initiative."

"And how much of that had to do with your _intuition, _hmm?"

"I wasn't lying about that," Karliah whispered firmly. "Something about Mercer Frey just never sat right with me. It was as though he wasn't human…"

"Wasn't…?" I could've slapped myself for my own stupidity. "Mighty Azura, I'm a s'wit. _Oblivion!"_

Karliah's head jerked up. "What?"

"I'm a werewolf," I reminded her in case this came out sounding weird, "and my pack and I… we all agreed, something about Mercer's core scent just wasn't right. Vilkas said it reminded him of Daedric, and of my scent—ancient magic. Ancient Daedric magic… that's Oblivion."

Karliah's eyes widened. "And if Mercer was so tainted by Oblivion you could _smell _it on him, then I was just…"

"…Shying away from what you subconsciously knew would kill you," I finished with her.

Karliah was just shaking her head. "All this time… all this hatred he had for the Daedra, and he was puppet of Oblivion."

"We're _all_ puppets of Oblivion."

Neither of us seemed to have any words left, not after that. Karliah just shut her eyes, and pressed her forehead against her knees again. I could have sworn I heard three little words as I left the room: "Azura, why him?"

All I could think as I made my way back over to bed was _poor, poor Karliah Indoril, Nocturnal's puppet, Fool of Mara, fate's bane. _Though… that was my title._ Feyn se Dez, _Bane of Fate. Circles upon circles upon circles. That was all my life was turning out to be at this point—ever-expanding concentric circles all centered around… what? My Dragon Blood? Sheogorath? _Akatosh? _Or something more human, perhaps? The Guild? The Companions? The Dark Brotherhood? I slid into bed, utterly exhausted, and pulled the covers over my head in an attempt to block out everything trying rush in on me.

"Ty…?"

Shit, I'd forgotten Brynjolf would be asleep by now. "Sorry, Bryn. Go back to sleep."

In a moment, we were face-to-face again. "Everything alright, love?"

I sighed. "Ask me again in a few years."

Brynjolf's smile was sad. "Don't do that to yourself. Trust me; it doesn't help anyone." He hugged me to his chest all the same.

"Put it to you this way," I relented, my forehead still resting against his collarbone, "Daedra are _exhausting _beings. Men, even more so."

I could hear the smile in his voice, more so than see it. "And women aren't?"

I had to chuckle at that. "Fair enough."

We receded into silence, and in the interim, our breathing regulated to the same rhythm. I was just on the edge of sleep when I heard him murmur, "I love you, Tiberia. Don't ever forget that."

And then I realized, I'd never told him my big important revelation. "For what it's worth, Brynjolf, I love you too."

And for the first time of many, that was our parting shot before Vaermina took us both.


	68. Darkness Returns

**Hey all you readers, lurkers, and fabulous reviewers :) Hope you're all enjoying the ride so far—it only gets crazier from here. **

**The Non-PM crew:**

**Lyriel: Because even in Skyrim, politicians suck.**

**-)**

Not for the first time in my rather short life, I found myself up shit creek without a paddle (or whatever it is the humans say…) and wondering how in Dagon's name I got there.

"Perfect," I growled. "Just perfect." I was currently a resident of a mid-sized, well-like, circular hole in the ground, roommates with a skeleton that looked as though he'd been there a while and a madness-inducing Daedric Artifact, and in the _dark._

Granted, that Daedric Artifact was the whole reason I was here in the first place. Knowing what I did now about Mercer Frey, there was no way in Oblivion I was going to let Brynjolf or Karliah anywhere near the damn Key. And so I rose with the dawn yesterday morning, and stole out of the Nightgate Inn—armor, weapons, Key, and all. I left them a note explaining why I was going, and telling them not to worry. I had then promptly changed into a werewolf, retrieved my horse from just outside Irkngthand, and ridden hard and fast for the Twilight Sepulcher.

Knowing Bryn, he'd kill me when I got back. Knowing Karliah, she'd help.

I sunk down against the wall to take stock of the situation. Karliah had mentioned during our stint in Irkngthand that the Twilight Sepulcher was a Nordic Ruin in the far reaches of Falkreath, close to the Reach. She also warned us that, because the Skeleton Key had been stolen, accessing the inner sanctum required us to walk the Pilgrim's Path, a test that had been created by certain priests of Nocturnal who claimed to be the Dark Lady's guardians. The Nightingales scoffed at this, but former Guildmaster and Nightingale Gunther of Riften had allowed them to remain, mostly because Nocturnal saw no harm in it. Besides, they kept the Sepulcher clean. However, because the Pilgrim's Path was not intended for Nightingales, but for those who wished to serve Nocturnal without knowledge of or membership to the Guild, Karliah didn't exactly know what the Path contained. Thus, we would essentially be going into the thing blind.

That was a big reason why I just took the damn thing and made for Falkreath. As well as a demented Daedra possibly driving them mad, there was the matter of not knowing what they would face. To me, that's old hat. My whole life has been one unknown after another ever since I left Morrowind. Brynjolf, though, he knows exactly what he is, and always has. He's a Son of Falkreath Hold, a Clansman, and a legacy within the Thieves Guild. Karliah, too, was raised firmly Indoril, under a Nightingale mother, and knew she would join a guild of thieves _somewhere_.

Back to the point, so I had come upon the Sepulcher at, fittingly, twilight. A small stream ran by a door carved with the traditional dragon's head rune. What unnerved me, however, was the fact that twin braziers had been lit on either side of the door—and recently, too. I went in anyway. The entrance hall had been constructed on a grand scale, and once upon a time, several archways had stood over the path I now walked. Currently they were little more than rubble and broken stone, but what I found fascinating was what (or rather, whom) was standing at the end of the pathway, just before the stone stairs that led gaping maw of an archway. A pale blue ancestor ghost paced back and forth at the bottom of these stairs, and I could see he had died in his Nightingale Armor.

"I… don't recognize you," said a smooth tenor in the Imperial accent, "but I sense that you're one of us. Who are you?"

His ghostly voice reverberated throughout the walls of the ruin, and mine seemed pitiful in comparison (and I do _not _have a weak voice). "I am the Nightingale's Talon, and I could ask the same question of you."

The ghost sighed. "I am the last of the Nightingale Sentinels, I'm afraid. I've defended the Sepulcher alone for what seems like an eternity."

My eyebrow quirked up. "The last?"

"The oath was broken upon my death, for it was one of our own who betrayed me. Though I'm much to blame for what's happened here, for I was blinded by treachery masquerading as friendship. Treachery, greed, ambition, and madness." The ghost sighed again. "Perhaps if I had been more vigilant, Mercer Frey would not have killed me and stolen the Skeleton Key… twice, no less."

It was as though I'd been splashed in the face with a bucket of cold water. "You're Gallus Desidenius!"

The ghost stepped backwards, as though surprised. "I… haven't heard that name in a long time. How do you know of me?"

I grinned. "You're a legend within the Guild, Gallus. But never mind that; I have the Key."

"The _Key?_" He was so shocked he ignored everything else I'd just said. "You have the Skeleton Key?! Merciful Mother, I never though we'd see it again! And Mercer Frey…?

I smirked. "Dead."

"Then my death was not in vain. It's over, the nightmare is over…" Ancestors, I've noticed, have a tendency to ramble. "It seems I owe you a great deal, Nightingale."

I bowed my head in an Elven show of respect, but I was smirking just the same. "What I do, I do for the Guild."

"And your sacrifice will be sung of throughout the ages!" Gallus assured me. "I only regret that you had to do this task alone."

"I wasn't alone; I'm never alone." Not with three selves constantly warring inside me. "And I had the aid of Ceylon and Juri's son, Brynjolf of Falkreath, and the one and only Karliah Indoril."

"Karliah?! She's alive!?" Gallus sounded so immensely relieved; in that moment, I knew exactly why Mercer Frey had lost. "I had feared she'd fallen to Mercer Frey's betrayal… oh, she was always the clever one, my love…" I could almost feel the smile emanating from him. "And Brynjolf, you say? Ceylon and Juri's younger son? Why, he must be a man now…! And you, Nightingale? Who are you?"

I smiled beneath the mask, and took the shortest route. "I am Tiberia Stormcloak Morwyn, Dovahkiin, Harbinger, and Nightingale. Now what do I do with this blasted Key? It drove Mercer mad, you know."

"I do wish I could go with you to return it," Gallus said wistfully. "But from the moment I arrived here, I felt myself… well... dying."

I snorted. "You're a spirit; you're already dead."

"The Sepulcher isn't merely a temple or a vault to house the Skeleton Key, Tiberia. Within these walls is the Ebonmere… the conduit to the Evergloam, Nocturnal's plane of Oblivion, from whence our luck comes."

_Now_ it was making sense. Gallus could speak Daedra Worshipper. "So Mercer stole the Key and cut us all off from Nocturnal?"

"Aye," Gallus said with a nod of his ghostly head. "All these years without the restoration of my power have taken their toll on me. I'm afraid you'll have to walk the Pilgrim's Path alone. At the end lies the Ebonmere… please, Nightingale, you _must _return the Key. Our luck comes from the Evergloam; it was what separates the Guild from common bandits."

"What we do requires _skill. _That's the difference."

"Yes, of course. Your skill is your own! Don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise. But remember, some still call Nocturnal Lady Luck… and for good reason."

I nodded, thinking back to my Daedric Lessons from when I truly _was_ an elfling. "But what has the severance from Evergloam done to the other Sentinels?"

"I fear they've undergone a drastic change, friend." Gallus inclined his head. "They are, ironically, shadows of their former selves. They no longer remember their own identities, their true purpose."

"So you're still coherent because…?"

Gallus shrugged. "I didn't manifest in the Sepulcher immediately, and fortunately wasn't here when the Ebonmere was sealed. But I've been growing ever-weaker each day the Key has not been returned." Then he seemed to grow determined. "I wish I could help you with the Path, Guildsister, but I've been prisoner in this entry chamber for the last quarter of a century. There are, however, the remains of some poor fellow over there…" he jerked a hand to his right. "…who was trying to follow in your footsteps. Perhaps he kept a journal?"

I threw up a hand. "Everyone in Skyrim does."

Gallus was smiling again; I could see it in his ghostly eyes. "Good luck, Nightingale Tiberia."

In short, the poor fellow (whose name was Nystrom, incidentally) had kept a journal, detailing the trials of the Pilgrim's Path:

The first: _Shadows of their former selves, sentinels of the dark. They wander ever more and deal swift death to defilers._

This one had been easy enough. I padded through the hallways, swords drawn and ever-alert. Of course, that's how I walk down everything from Nordic Ruins to hallways at night, so it's hardly news. Furthermore, because I'm so bloody paranoid, when I got to an open room with a steep set of stairs and the first Nightingale Sentinel jumped out at me, he was met with bloody and terrible vengeance—or at least, he would have been, had he still possessed blood. Every Sentinel of the Dark after him was met with the same fate, so when I cleared this trial, I hadn't even broken a sweat. So far, it was proving to be a standard Nord tomb.

The second trial proved a bit more difficult: _Above all they stand, vigilance everlasting. Beholden the murk yet contentious of the glow_

I came to a dungeon-style room with trenches cut on either side, and the only way through was over stone formations with rickety wooden bridges leading up and down and space between. I murmured the Aura Whisper to set my mind at east—"_Laas yah nir!"_—but found nothing living in this room but some roaches and a family of mice. The rectangular rock formations were lit sporadically with torches (which, much like the braziers outside the door to the actual ruin, I found disconcerting). I sheathed my swords but worked my magicka into a fever pitch, ready to be employed at a moment's notice.

I had made it maybe three steps into the room before I was beset on all sides by flame. I jerked backwards into the darkness, just out of habit, and mercifully I escaped much of the flame. (It singed my braids though.) I noticed a trip wire I'd accidently set off, and felt distinctly ashamed of myself. It had been a long time since _I _had been the one to set off a trap. I dropped to my belly to examine the floor, and realized there were multiple trip wires across the entire hallways, and even up the stairs. "Damn this to Oblivion!" I cursed. How did you get through this bloody place?

Then it hit me, and I nearly hit _myself_ for being so stupid. Nocturnal is the Night's Mistress—my friend was the dark. And so I followed the shadowy, unlit portions of the room, twisting and turning to avoid the light and the occasional arrow trap I set off because I couldn't _see _the bloody thing. There were no enemies in the gloom, though—only merciful shadow and Nocturnal's blessings…

Ah, forgive me. It's been too long since I've properly worshipped.

The next trial, in some respects, was the hardest of all: _Offer what She desires most, but reject the material. For her greatest want is that which cannot be seen, felt, or carried. _

I came to a room not unlike the Waiting Door in my family's ancestral home. A shrine to Nocturnal sat at the far end of the stone corridor, carved of the smoothest ebony. The Dark Lady had an arm outstretched and ravens—or actually, probably nightingales, now that I think about it—perched on either shoulder and on her raised fingers. At the foot of the shrine was an offering bowl—I noted several precious gems glinting in the gloom, and probably a sprig of Nightshade or two—and just before that lay the dead and decaying body of a bandit, clearly a long-time resident of this hall.

I approached the shrine cautiously, muttering the clue in the journal to myself over and over again. What Nocturnal desired most, I knew, was obedience to her cause, but that was hardly going to get me through the trial, now was it? Daedra speak in riddles; trying to figure them out was exhausting. Though actually, in a way, Lord Sheogorath makes the most sense of them all (if you can follow his twisted logic) because he just calls it like he sees it. Not like, say, Hermaeus Mora, who speaks in riddles, or Boethiah, whose only tribute is blood.

_Reject the material_… that was easy enough. I ignored the offering bowl and instead surveyed the room. What was the simplest thing Nocturnal desired…

Oi! I'm an idiot sometimes.

I cast a spell of frost onto either of the lit torches on the walls and immediately, the room was plunged into darkness. Twin pull chains, situated behind each torch, suddenly glinted at me in the gloom and, being a lifetime adventurer, I readied a spell before yanking on both of them. There was a great rumbling from behind the shrine of Nocturnal, and an opening appeared, sending me through to the next trial:

_Direct and yet indirect. The Path to salvation a route of cunning with fortune betraying the foolish._

The first set of traps I came to was the standard swinging axes within a confined hallway—a well-timed Whirlwind Sprint took care of that. The next was a log suspending from the ceiling—avoiding the floor plate was child's play. I came to a door, with the traditional dragon's head motif, and instinctively knew that behind it lay Nocturnal's Inner Sanctum. There was an open hallway to my left, however, that was calling for me to go explore.

I pushed open the door.

_ The journey is complete, the Empress' embrace awaits the fallen. Hesitate not if you wish to gift her your eternal devotion._

I don't know about that last part, but that door led me down a hallway (which was eerily similar to a Hall of Stories) and through another arch that opened into this damnable pit. I didn't even see it coming in this thrice-blasted darkness and purple mist. _How _on Nirn, I ask you, can mists be _purple!? _I glanced up, noting that the ceiling was a good number of feet above, and though there were logs that had apparently once held something stuck in a circular fashion around the sides of the pit, there was no way for me to get up to the first ring of them, let alone continue a climb. I was well and truly stuck.

No, not truly stuck. I had a trump card. I just hoped I wouldn't need to use it.

I reached into my pocket and withdrew the Skeleton Key, still wrapped in Mercer's bracer. I carefully slid it out of its prison with the Talons, careful not to touch it. I was pretty sure Sheogorath wouldn't let me go mad without _his _ideas behind it, but I was taking no chances. I held the thing aloft, waiting. And then the floor was yanked from under me.

I now stood in a circular room, bathed in the blue-black glow of Oblivion. Three large rocks were positioned about a circular pattern on the floor, and in the center of this pattern was the only source of light in the room and a tiny hole, perfect for the Key. I fitted the Key into the lock, and jerked backwards, out of the way. I take no chances with Oblivion.

In a flurry of purple mist, black feathers, and nightingales, a large font arose in the gloom, right where the center circle had been. Like a thrice-taloned hand, it reached toward the heavens and instead of traditional water, a deep purple liquid of the Evergloam swirled within. And floating above this was the Lady Nocturnal herself.

With a start, I realized she looked exactly like her shrines. Skin pale as the full moon, robes dark as the sky when new. The hood of her robe was drawn over her head, though the neckline plunged nearly to her ribs. Nocturnal spread her arms wide, and twin nightingales alighted on either side. The purple mists of Oblivion clung to her and the birds, as though magnetized there. I dropped to a knee out of reverence for, if nothing more, her status as Daedric Lord.

"My, my, what do we have here?" the Lady mused. "It's been a number of years since I've set foot on your world. Or perhaps, it's been moments. One tends to lose track." Then her musing tone turned serious. "So, once again the Key has been stolen and a 'champion' returns it to the Sepulcher." She snorted. "Now that the Ebonmere has been restored, you stand before me awaiting your accolades; a pat on your head… a kiss on the cheek."

"No, my Lady. I'm afraid I've dealt in too many Daedra for that."

Nocturnal laughed, and this chamber echoed with the sound. "Ah, yes. I forget; you are Sheogorath's."

That reminded me. "Lady Nocturnal, may I ask you something?"

She paused to ponder this. "I may or may not answer, but go on."

"The Key," I said, gesturing to where it now resided, deep in the waters of the Ebonmere, "drove Mercer Frey mad. But you don't deal in madness. And these…" I held up the Talons. "…sent me into his memory. You don't deal in memory. How is any of this possible?"

For a moment, it seemed as though she wasn't going to answer. But then, like darkness, her voice filled the room: "I do not deal in madness, nor memory, this is true. But I have brothers and sisters who do."

The idea of tag-teaming Daedra left me sick to my stomach. "I thought Daedric Princes did not work together?"

"We do when it suits us," Nocturnal said with a shrug. "And you are a devout of many, are you not, my child?"

"Aye…" I nodded. "Many more than most."

Nocturnal nodded gravely. "And we all have a hand in your future, little Nightingale. Tell me, who deals in Madness?"

"Lord Sheogorath," I whispered. "King of Madness."

"And who deals in memory?"

"Lady Vaermina, Giver of Nightmares."

"And whom do you now serve?"

"You, Lady Nocturnal, the Night's Mistress."

"And who created you?"

"Lady Azura, Queen of the Night Sky."

"Whose Artifacts do you wield daily?"

"Those of Lady Meridia, Bane of the Undead, and Lord Mehrunes Dagon, Lord of Destruction." Well, not anymore, but that wasn't the point.

"And whom do your sisters serve?"

"Lady Mephala, the Webspinner, and Lady Boethiah, Prince of Plots."

"All true, little Nightingale, all very true. But whose blood is in your veins now?"

I took me a moment. "Talos, Ysmir and Dragonborn."

"And who, if this be true, is your divine father?"

"Akatosh, Lord of Time."

Nocturnal nodded once more. "Well then, Sheogorath's Child—is it out of the question for those of us with a hand in your destiny to work together to fulfill it? I should say decidedly not."

"Aedra can't manifest on Nirn."

"True!" Nocturnal was laughing again. "True, our cousins the Aedra do not deal with mortals personally. And that is what makes them weak." Well, that and the fact that the creation of Nirn left them mortally wounded, to say the least. "They cannot remain here because of the Pact—and you know this. But there are other ways of influencing mortals."

I nodded weakly. "Like Martin Septim."

"Exactly. Now, does that answer your question? I should hope not; or I haven't been doing my job properly." She bequeathed unto me a rare smile. "Don't mistake my tone for displeasure, however. You have performed your duties obediently and to the letter. For a Child of Sheogorath, this is not an easy task."

"No Lady Nocturnal," I said with a laugh, "it is not."

A semismile still remained on her face. "But we both know this has little to do with honor or oaths or loyalty. It has to do with the reward; the prize. Fear not. You'll have your trinkets, your desire for power, your hunger for wealth…"

My brow furrowed, any mirth gone from my face. "I swear to do something, I do it. It is entirely to do with honor and oaths and loyalty. At least for me."

Nocturnal actually cocked an eyebrow. "From a Dunmer? How odd." It only cranked higher when she realized, "Ah, but you are part Nord. I forget. In any event, mortal, I bid you to drink deeply from the Ebonmere, for this is where the Agent of Nocturnal is born." She gestured to the swirling liquid below her. "For the Oath has been struck, the die has been cast, and your fate awaits you in the Evergloam… no matter _what _certain brothers of mine say."

It practically fell out of my mouth: "Mercer said that."

Nocturnal's whole aura saddened. "He was once my beloved child, even as you are, Tiberia. Oh, how far you mortals fall." She began to recede into the Ebonmere, though her voice resonated through this chamber. "Farewell, Nightingale. See to it that the Key stays put this time, won't you?"

I felt a presence appear behind me out of the gloom, and turned to find Karliah and Brynjolf, in full Nightingale Regalia, standing beside one of the arched depressions in the wall. "I'm going to kill you, lass," Brynjolf growled, his arms folded across his chest. "Running off in the dead of night with the Skeleton Key?! You could have gone Mercer's route, for all we knew."

"But you _know_ me, Brynjolf. Very well, I'd say." I spread both arms wide. "Did you really expect anything more?"

"Nothing less, more like," Karliah murmured, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "I am glad you were able to return the Key safely… _without _our help."

I embraced the both of them in turn. "There was no way in Oblivion I was going to let either of you near that thing. It's _dangerous; _drove Mercer mad."

Karliah sighed. "In truth, I probably wouldn't have been able to face Nocturnal, anyway. I still can't believe I failed so badly…"

"And Bryn," I said, trying to defuse the tension in his stance, "someone needed to look after the Guild, anyway. I'm not good with desk work."

He snorted despite himself. "Aye, that's true enough."

"And Nocturnal seemed quite pleased with your efforts." Karliah inclined her head, Dunmeri style. "Don't take the indifference too much to heart; it's her way."

"Karliah, I am the _last _person to take offence at that." More laughter bubbled up from the newly-restored Trinity. "Besides, if she'd _really _been displeased, I wouldn't still be here."

"True enough," Karliah agreed. "Now come; time for the two of you to fully assume your roles… and me to regain mine."

We stood on our respective glowing floor glyphs—the crescent moon for Karliah, the half moon for Brynjolf, and the full moon for me—and strode forward as one to drink from the Ebonmere. It reminded me vaguely of my original induction into the Circle… but didn't taste nearly as bad as Aela's blood. That was just… _ugh, _don't even want to think about it. This was less like drinking hot rust, more like a wine just a bit soured.

Now as fully assumed Nightingales, we three drew back our hoods and reveled in the chance to breathe. "Now what?" Brynjolf mused.

"This is not an end, Brynjolf, but a beginning." Karliah grinned. "The beginning, I should hope, of the greatest crime spree Skyrim's ever known. We may be Nightingales, but in our hearts we're still thieves, and we're _damn_ good at what we do."

I smirked and Bryn was about to say something when a ghostly voice silenced anything we might have said: "Karliah...?"

She turned, and her jaw actually fell open in shock. "Gallus!" And in that moment too, I could see why Mercer Frey had lost. Karliah strode forward to meet Gallus' apparition, and I would have turned away to give them privacy, but there was nowhere to go. "I feared I would never see you again… afraid you'd become like all the others."

"If it were not for the actions of this Nightingale…" he gestured to me. "…I would have been. She honors us all."

"That she does." Karliah smiled at me, then turned back to Gallus. "So what will you do now, my love?"

"Nocturnal calls me to the Evergloam. It seems my contract has been fulfilled." They both inclined their heads, knowing exactly what this meant. "When your debt, too, has been repaid, I will meet you there." I felt Brynjolf's arm settle around my shoulders, his past anger forgotten.

"Farewell, Gallus." Karliah's face was set, but her voice was shaking. "Eyes front… walk with the Shadows."

"Goodbye, Karliah." He began to walk towards the Ebonmere, and just before the swirling purple mists, he paused and glanced back at her once more. "And it is time the Guild was governed by a new phrase, one I think the Lady bestowed upon the new Guildmaster."

Karliah was smiling, and yet on the verge of tears. "Shadows hide you, Talos guide you."

Gallus nodded—"Precisely."—and stepped into the Ebonmere, receding into the mists of Oblivion as we all do, when our time has come.

For a long moment, there was naught but silence. Then Karliah spoke: "Tiberia, I'm afraid this isn't the end of your trials."

"I swear to Azura, if there's another hoop to jump through, I will personally…"

"No, lass," Brynjolf cut in, squeezing my shoulder gently. "This isn't about Nocturnal—the Companions have asked for you personally, Harbinger."

Unease wrapped me in its claws. "What's going on?"

Bryn drew in a deep breath. "They sent a missive to Riften. Ulfric Stormcloak is finally marching to take Whiterun; he'll be there within the month. They need you, Tiberia."

"But the Guild," Karliah interjected smoothly, "always pays its debts. We will all fight with your Shield-Siblings, to defend their home as they defended ours."

"Aye." Brynjolf nodded the affirmative. "You'll be made Guildmaster in Whiterun; we can't afford to be without one right now."

"Well, then..." I drew in a deep breath and yanked my hood over my head once more. "…to war, Gentlemen."


	69. Under New Management

**Hi, everybody! A big thank you to all you wonderful people :)**

**And non-PM crew:**

**Stephen: Thank you so much :D I'm glad you enjoy my work**

**Terkaly: Thank you :) I'm glad I can brighten your day, even just a little. **

**Lyriel: Vilkas, you said? Here you are. **

**-)**

Jorrvaskr is as much my home as Morrowind ever was, and the Ratway even more so. But it seemed like every time I came back to Whiterun, I was the crux of yet another argument—or at the very least, shouting match. Brynjolf, Karliah, and I—the Nightingale Trinity—were strewn across the main hall of Jorrvaskr, talking to the Circle and a few other assorted members not out on jobs. I was sitting on the head of the main table, legs crossed and dangling off the side; Brynjolf was leaning casually against one of the pillars on the perimeter, his shoulders bearing the brunt of his weight and leaving him free to spring to his feet at a moment's notice; Karliah was sitting on the steps leading up to the door, watching the unfolding scene with open interest.

"…And because he betrayed the Guild, you killed the Guildmaster Mercer Frey," Aela was saying, ticking things off on her fingers, "took a day-trip into his memory, and returned an insanity-inducing Daedric Artifact to Oblivion?"

I nodded. "Aye."

"Meanwhile," Farkas continued the story, "you're about to be inducted as the new Guildmaster to the Riften Thieves Guild, and you, Brynjolf, and your cousin Karliah live your lives in service to a Daedric Prince as Nightingales…?"

"I thought those were just myth," Athis interjected from across the way.

"They're not," Karliah assured him.

"Aye," I said to Farkas, ignoring the interruptions.

"And so that makes it…" Farkas paused to count. "…eight Divine beings that currently have a claim on your soul?"

I paused myself to do the math and began to list the names: _Sheogorath, Azura, Hircine… _ "I believe so, yes."

"And on top of that," Aela continued, "you answer our request _immediately _because you feel the distinct need for revenge on Ulfric Stormcloak?" I nodded emphatically. "And the rest of your Guild is on its way?" Another nod. "So it's to be the Battle of Riften all over again, is it?"

"Yes, yes, and no," I answered swiftly. "We won't have the Brotherhood's help this time."

"Yes, that's another thing," Vilkas snorted. "You have a Brotherhood contract on your head still, and, to top it all off, you're _betrothed?"_

I held up my right hand so that Bryn's clan ring caught the light. "Aye."

Farkas punched the air in triumph. "Called it!"

Aela rolled her eyes. "Oh, you have foresight; you don't count!"

_"Betrothed!" _Vilkas said again, as though he couldn't quite believe it.

Farkas was just staring at me. "Do you _ever_ sleep?"

I shrugged. "Ain't no rest for the wicked."

Later that day, the rest of the Guild arrived. Everyone was relieved to see the three of us in one piece, curious as to the story behind Mercer Frey's death, and eager to induct me as the new Guildmaster so that we could put this whole sordid affair behind us. I agreed with the latter, but I vehemently tried to abdicate the position. But Delvin, Vex, and Brynjolf—the current Guild triad—were firm in their insistence that I was the only one for the job.

And so, as twilight began to descend, the entirety of the Riften Thieves Guild was gathered on the back steps of Jorrvaskr, surrounding what was usually the training ground. The current Triad—plus Karliah—was arrayed in the same manner as the Circle had been, so many years ago, when I'd been brought into the Companions. (The irony was not lost on me.) The Triad was looking fierce and formidable in their black leather Guild armor, Karliah mysterious and distinctly Daedric in the Armor of the Nightingales. Unsurprisingly, they'd elected Brynjolf as their mouthpiece. So I strode down the Jorrvaskr steps to meet the Guild leaders, he called out: "Thieves of the Riften faction!" and the entirety of the Guild snapped to attention, as well as the assembled Companions who refused to miss out on an excuse to celebrate.

Whatever spell he'd been weaving broke, however, when he said, "Look, I've never been good at these things, so I'm just going to keep it short. Being Guildmaster means more than just getting a cut of all the loot—it's about honor, it's about being a leader, and keeping this rabble in order. With that in mind, I propose to you, honored Guildsiblings, Tiberia Stormcloak Morwyn as the next Guildmaster."

Delvin's response was immediate. "Agreed."

"Vex?" Bryn prompted.

She shrugged. "Sure, why not? Can't be any worse than Mercer."

"Karliah?"

"Absolutely," came a thick Mournhold accent from underneath the Nightingale's hood.

"Then everyone is in agreement." Brynjolf was having a hard time holding onto his poker face. "Then Tiberia, all I can do now is name you Guildmaster, and wish you good fortune and long life." Now it broke into a genuine smile.

A roar arose from the Guild, and it took every ounce of willpower in me not to flush red. Brynjolf however, pretended to look surprised, and called out: "And you lot, get back to work!"

The Guild (and assorted Companions) dissipated, laughing, as Brynjolf beckoned me over to join the Triad out on the floor. "So that's it, eh?" I quipped once I'd reached them.

Brynjolf smirked. "I told you I'm not one for ceremony. And we're hardly known for throwing our coin around in Riften."

"'E just says what's on 'is mind," Delvin offered with a grin.

"To a fault," Vex muttered.

"_Anyway," _Brynjolf continued in a voice that left no room for argument, "Tonilia has your new armor, and…" He rummaged around in his pockets a moment, looking for something. He withdrew from one—finally—a small, circular pendant with a knotted triangle looped around the edges, and a black stone set into the center. "…It's sort of a tradition that the Guildmaster has this."

"It's known as the Amulet of Articulation," Delvin offered up information to fill the gaps. "It's got some enchantment that seems to make persuasion easier. Mercer never needed it; that man could talk 'is way out of anything. That's why we didn't lose it with 'im."

"Just be careful with it," Karliah warned. "People have been known to get into trouble with that thing."

Vex smirked, and nudged Brynjolf with an elbow. "Yeah, like your soon-to-be husband, here." We other four thieves shot her the exact same surprised look, but all for different reasons. "Oh, _please_. She's wearing his ring."

Tonilia saved me from further social awkwardness by grabbing me by the arm and not-so-subtly leading me into the Jorrvaskr, and down into the Harbinger's quarters. "How in Oblivion…?" I began, shutting the door behind me.

"Tiberia, please," the Redguard scoffed. "The Twins were more than happy to direct we thieves around. The surly one's not too happy about having the lot of us stay here…" (It had been agreed that the Guild would just assimilate into Jorrvaskr; no sense in clogging up the Bannered Mare. Besides, a general needs her "officers" on hand at all times.) "…but I think his twin just told him to get over it."

I snorted. "You can't tell Farkas and Vilkas apart either?" When Tonilia slowly shook her head no, I had to laugh and say, "Farkas is the one that doesn't look like he wants to kill you."

Tonilia's clear laughter rang throughout the Harbinger's quarters as she disappeared into the sleeping quarters (and then came back out with a set of black leather Higher Operative Armor). "I think it's mostly Brynjolf Vilkas wants to murder." She tapped the ring on my hand with one slim, dark finger after she dumped the armor in my hands.

"How does everyone know what this bloody thing means?" I harrumphed, setting down my new Guild leathers and beginning to unbuckle my current boots.

She just laughed again. "Honestly, Tiberia, it's not so much that we know all the symbolism as we know Brynjolf's had it bad for a long time now, and that ring…" she gestured to my hand. "…has never left his hand in the history of his time in the Guild. That makes you pretty damn important, elfling."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that, but mercifully, I didn't have to. Tonilia clapped me on the shoulder and said, "Get into your new armor, come find us in the great hall. There's a right bit of celebrating to be done!"

I snorted as she left, and—after making sure the door was securely shut—stripped off my old Guild armor and held the new set aloft, taking it in with a furrowed brow. The old set, the Junior Armor, was a warm brown, familiar as my own skin by now. This new one was a cold black, making it seem as though the world had gone colorless. I slid into the leggings and undershirt, testing the new feel and weight, and over that went the new jerkin. I snapped the clasps shut, feeling, as I always did, as though I became Tiberia Morwyn this way. Whatever lay underneath my armor wasn't _me, _it was… I don't know, something weaker. Less powerful. Childlike. These chest straps, I couldn't help but note, were heavier than the ones on the Juniors' set, and every movement now, with this heavier armor, seemed slower, more deliberate (though in actuality, the difference in weight couldn't have been more than half a pound). I laced up the bracers and buckled the boots, and stood in the Guildmaster's armor with a profound sense of newfound responsibility on my shoulders.

Being Harbinger of the Companions, being Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold… neither really required me to be there. The Harbinger was mostly there to give advice; I didn't even need to be in Whiterun for that. The Master Wizard ran day-to-day operations at the College; they hardly even needed an Arch-Mage, it was mostly a ceremonial position. But being Guildmaster… _that_ was a full time job. I could never just walk away, and leave running the show to the underlings. I was bound to the Thieves Guild for life now, even as Mercer Frey, Gallus Desidenius, and Gunther of Riften had been.

Strangely enough, I was alright with that.

As I made my way up the Great Hall in this new armor, feeling oddly free and yet bound just the same, I nearly collided with Vilkas because neither of us were watching where we were going. Bloody typical on both our parts, really. "Oof!" I exclaimed at the same time Vilkas blurted out, "Sorry! Didn't see you there!"

Something between us had shifted. I could feel it in my bones.

"Morwyn, I…" he began.

"I have nothing to say to you."

"…I was going to say 'congratulations' earlier, but…" he trailed off, eyes smoldering with barely-contained heat—temper, temper little one, as my mother used to say.

I scoffed. "Vilkas Jergenson, the _pinnacle _of honor and warm fuzzy feelings."

His leveled me with a withering look. "Have I been nothing but respectful to you, Harbinger?"

"No, actually." I subconsciously folded my arms across my torso and pressed both heels firmly into the ground. "Since my ascension to Harbinger, you have done nothing but undermine my personal sovereignty and weighted authority, question my decisions, and disregard my wishes. Actually," I realized belatedly, "you've been doing that the entire time I've known you."

"Morwyn!" He sounded appalled.

I was livid, but somehow remained calm. "Do you deny this?"

"You're damn right I do…!"

"Peace, Shield-Brother!" I spoke loudly enough to silence him, but wasn't shouting. Not yet. "Be at _peace_. We've settled our score; I'll not open it again." I was falling into my old Elven cadence, the way I'd still spoken back when I'd first arrived in Jorrvaskr.

"I _am _at peace," he growled, making a herculean effort to keep his voice down, "and I have _not _disrespected you. I question your decisions as I do Farkas'. It's what friends do, I hear."

I spoke next through my teeth. "You have refused a friend in me since Sovngarde."

"I have _protected _you these last few years!"

"_I don't need protecting!" _I barked, now finally losing my cool. How on _Nirn _hadMercer remained calm during times like this?! " _I am my own guardian!"_

And with that, I turned on heel and vaulted up the stairs, leaving Vilkas to figure out his own damn life. I was done walking on eggshells for the man. Either he'd man up and get over it, or he wouldn't. Either way, it just wasn't my problem anymore. I'd done all I could for the man.

"Guildmaster!" my Guildmates greeted as I made my way into the great hall of Jorrvaskr.

I had seen this place a thousand times over the years. A large, square firepit crackled at all hours of the day and night, and around it were fitted several long tables, akin to any Mead Hall. Simple steps led out of the depression the firepit sat in, leading to large double doors through which Companions came and went as though they revolved. The roof was the hull of the ship that Ysgramor had sailed to Skyrim on—or so the legends went—and thus the domed appearance had always vaguely reminded me of Morrowind, what with the Redoran giant crab shell houses and all. Weapons of great Companions past were mounted on the walls, and right above the living quarter stairs was our pride and joy, Wuuthrad, in full glory—the axe that Ysgramor himself had wielded when leading the five hundred.

I had seen it a thousand times, this room, but this time was different. Maybe because all my life, I'd been ducking and dodging responsibility. Not the major ones—I did my duty as Dovahkiin, as a soldier, as Guildsister, as a Companion—but leadership roles. Harbinger, Arch-Mage, now Guildmaster… they kept getting dumped in my lap, no matter how much I protested. I would have been perfectly happy living out the rest of my days on Vvardenfel after Sovngarde, teaching promising young students the way of the sword, maybe even the Way of the Voice, if they were talented enough. But Azura had other plans for me; Talos had other plans.

This innate ability to rule, this cult of personality… this came from my father. Not Lord Amory, not the Dark Elf—Ulfric Stormcloak. He was born to rule, just as I was. I realized, dimly, that it may have had something to do with the Nedic blood in the line, the roots that traced all the way back to Ysgramor. My ability to reason with rulers, however, came from my mother, the Lady Acacia, the politician. Between the two of them, I made a damn decent leader. I just hoped no one would nominate me for High Queen when the time came. There was no way in Oblivion that I would carry _that _mantle.

In the end, it was Brynjolf who brought me out of my train of thought. He was appraising me in this new armor, alongside Delvin and Vex, of course. "It suits you," Delvin proclaimed.

"Aye," Brynjolf agreed. "Lass, you should've been in Higher Operative Armor from the start."

I shrugged. "Better late than never."

The Companions had a good little party going, what for my coronation and the upcoming chance at glory. It wasn't long before I had a tankard pressed into my hands, Athis had brought out his fiddle, and the Guild and Companions were intermingling into one people. It was almost surreal, seeing these two major halves of my life come together. Ria and Rune immediately struck up an easy friendship, being the two most easygoing members of both factions, while Aela, Cynric, and Niruin chatted away about the finer points of Archery. Vex was talking battle tactics with—of all people—Vilkas for the better part of the night, while Claudius cracked tawdry jokes with Delvin. They had made it their goals in life to outdo each other in obscenities and lowbrow humor.

"Do you think this'll last?" I said to Brynjolf from our vantage points against one of the pillars.

He shrugged, the movement hindered by his stance. "My bet is probably not. They'll back us so long as you're around, but we can't expect much more than that."

"Mmm. I just worry for the future of the Guild. Whether they'll have backing in Whiterun or not."

"Either way," Brynjolf said, "it's been a pleasure serving with you, my friend. Here's to the future of the Guild." He raised his tankard high. "May it last another thousand years!"

"Aye!" I agreed with a laugh, and we clinked the bottoms of the mugs together and drank deep of the waters of oblivion—as we had, not so long ago, in a ruin in Falkreath Hold.

When my Guildmates called for their new Guildmaster to make a speech, and I acquiesced, I knew I was drunker than I probably should have been. I hopped up onto the table of my own power though, and turned to address my Guildsiblings with poise befitting a warrior (a slightly intoxicated warrior). "Eyes front; keep to the Shadows!" I called over the hubbub, instantly, the Guild quieted (the Companions had to take their cue from that). "Who was the last one to tell you this?"

"Mercer Frey!" growled Vipir, and his eyes called for bloody vengeance.

"Mercer Frey," I agreed, detaching the names from each other and spitting each syllable out with contempt. "Have you ever met a being more contemptible?"

"'Fraid not," Sapphire called.

"And that's rather difficult, given our line of work," Ondolemar commented dryly.

"But this isn't about him, is it?" I called. "No, this is about honor and family. Mercer betrayed both; that's why he had to be cut down. Don't mistake the deeds for the man." I shot a look around the corners of the room, and some of my Guildsiblings lowered their heads in shame. "Honor and family—_that _is what's important. Larceny is in our blood, every last one of us. We're thieves, and we're _damn _good at what we do. But what we do, we do for the Guild—what _I _do, I do for the Guild.

"Mercer Frey raided our coffers, poisoned our minds, murdered our associates, and made us question our future." My voice was soaring with the intensity. "He taught each and every one of us the art of larceny, the value of hard work. Mercer was neither angel nor demon, but man. As we all are. He may have ruined our past and wrecked our present—but I won't let him _touch_ our future."

A roar of approval arose from the Guild, and my head was held high as I spread my arms wide, calling for peace, calling for justice. "So it time for the Guild to be governed by a new phrase. We know to keep our eyes front; we know the Shadows are our friends."

"If not that," Vex called, "then what?"

I smirked. "Talos guide us; Shadows hide us." I pressed one fist into the other hand's open palm, not aggressively, more akin to a prayer. "If we do that..." I leveled my gaze on the rest of the Riften Faction. "…They'll never take us alive."


	70. Oblivion Walker

**Hey all, hopefully this clears up a few things :) and as always, thank you to all you wonderful readers, lurkers, and especially reviewers :)**

**And the Non-PM folks:**

**Lyriel: Ty gets away with it because she's short :)**

**Stephen: Why thank you :) **bows back****

-)

Dawn of the following day found me crouched over the fire pit, carefully laying strips of bacon onto a hissing griddle. Tilma always tsks at me when I do this. She says it's not the Harbinger's job to do something so menial as cook. It's practically degrading. But I always win the argument—mostly, I feel, because Tilma's got enough to do already and if one of the Companions actually deigns to help her, well then, she was hardly going to protest.

Sleeping arrangements had been interesting. In short, the Guildsisters took over the Harbinger's quarters, and our Guildbrothers were left to fend for themselves. There were several empty beds in Jorrvaskr, though not nearly enough. Most of them pulled rank and I think only Rune and Vipir were left on the floor. And even they didn't complain much, because there are, of course, worse places to sleep. At least we were shielded from the storm.

Storms, storms, so very many. Thunderstorms are as common to Hearthfire in Whiterun Hold as ash in Morrowind. The roads were sludge, caking boot and cart alike in a thick, tarlike mud. At the very least, this would slow Ulfric's retinue down long enough for me to meet with Jarl Balgruuf and Commander Caius and figure out how best to defend Whiterun. I would have something of a proper army for this fight, I couldn't help but note with dark relief. More men means better defenses, but it also means more blood on my hands. I do not fight because I love the battle before me, I constantly reminded myself, but because I love what lies behind.

A grunt alerted me that I was no longer the only one in the great hall. My head whipped around, and found Brynjolf at the top of the stairs, hands up, palms out. "Do me a favor lass," he croaked, "and whisper, would you?"

The corner of my lips quirked up in a smile. "Someone kept up with a werewolf drink-for-drink last night," I teased good-naturedly. (I wasn't hungover, thanks to the Beast Blood.)

"No," Brynjolf snorted, hunkering down next to me. "_Someone _kept up with _four."_ I only just stopped myself from laughing as I handed him my coffee mug.

We ate in companionable silence, and slowly the Great Hall began to fill with people. First came Njada, who quickly disappeared outside for her morning training routine. Then came Vex, who seemed miraculously sentient for someone who'd been drinking straight Cyrodiilic whiskey all night. As more Guildsiblings and Companions filled the hall, several were clearly hung over, and others laughing at their friends' misfortune. Only the elves and the werewolves, it seemed, had come away from last night scot-free.

"It's a pity Restoration magic is useless for hangovers," Delvin lamented as he joined Bryn and me.

"Aye," I agreed. "And those damnable healing potions. Avalon had a hangover cure; I wish she'd taught it to me before I left Morrowind."

"Too young?" Bryn asked.

I glanced up at him from over the rim of my tankard. "Only according to my mother."

They both cracked up as I rose to my feet to go and meet with the Twins and Aela. "Vilkas," I greeted, knowing he'd know the answer to the next question, "is everyone awake?"

He paused to do some mental math. "I believe so, yes. Why?"

That was my cue to hop up on the table. (You know, I honestly couldn't tell you how many times I've given a speech from up here.). "Anyone who isn't Guild…" my voice filled the room with a deadly and decisive alto. "…get out."

I couldn't have shocked the place more if I'd announced I was pregnant. "Morwyn, you can't be serious…!" Vilkas began.

"Am I not Harbinger?" I called to him flatly, and a nod was dredged up from the depths of Oblivion. "Am I not Guildmaster?" Nods from the Guild. "Then the order stands. If you're not Guild, get out. I will personally come and get you when I'm finished, here. This is Guild business; it doesn't pertain to the Companions."

Not even the Twins argued with that logic. The Companions slunk away before long, leaving a half-drunken Thieves Guild sitting in the main hall of Jorrvaskr. Now _that _is juxtaposition. "What do you need, Tiberia?" Delvin called.

I observed the Guild in a remarkably calm manner. "I'm not deaf, you know. I've heard you lot talking. You think I was too easy on Mercer Frey?"

Dead silence, and sheepish gazes directed at the ground. "Well, Ty," Vipir called quietly from his position on the stairs, "you _did _defend him. Multiple times."

"Aye," Cynric agreed uneasily. "He betrayed the Guild, left you for dead in some gods-forsaken burial cairn, and you defend him? Doesn't make any sense."

I see why Bryn and Mercer always had their hands at their temples—running the Guild was migraine-inducing. "The secrets aren't mine to tell…"

"Tell them," Karliah interjected at once. "It is time for the Guild to know."

"You sure, lass?" Brynjolf's voice emanated from somewhere behind me.

"Secrecy is what got us into this mess in the first place. It is time they knew."

I bowed my head in deference to her wishes. "Alright, fine. Do you want to know why Mercer Frey did what he did? Fine. Here it is." I explained the Nightingales, their duties, the history of the Guild's relationship with Nocturnal, my day trip into Mercer's memories, and why his days had been numbered. "…And his betrayal is what cursed us—yes, Delvin, it really _was _a curse—and caused our luck to run dry. And so he had to die. And as the Nightingale's Talon…" I held my right hand aloft; the Talons glinted in the firelight. "…it was my job to do it. You know, I think there's a 'stealing the heart of a master thief' joke in here somewhere, but I really don't care to find it. So now you all know the ignominy of Mercer Frey. Heed it. Learn from it. But do not demonize the man."

"See, there it is," Vex said, folding her arms across her chest and leaning against one of the pillars the same way she did the crates in the Flagon. "The man was a surly git and masterful deceiver—why do you defend him?"

I blinked twice. "I'm not sure I understand the question, Vex."

"You say he desecrated Nocturnal's temple," Rune said, "stole her source of power, and cursed us all." I hadn't been any more specific than that. The Skeleton Key would remain a secret. "He left you for dead, betrayed Gallus, and stole the entirety of the Guild's fortune. Why _shouldn't _we demonize him?"

I rocked back on my heels, trying to figure out the best way to say it. "The road to Oblivion is paved with good intentions. Aye?'

"Aye," affirmed my Guildmates.

"I still don't know why, but I think Mercer stole the Key twice. Once was before Gallus' death, and then… see, this is what doesn't make sense. He would have had to put the Key back to steal it again."

"The Key?" Ondolemar inquired.

Damn! Me and my big mouth. "Yeah… that's Nocturnal's insanity-inducing artifact. Don't any of you get _any _ideas. If this thing gets stolen again, I'll know it was one of you. And the retaliation will be swift and decidedly bloody."

"Tiberia, we've lived in close proximity to you for too long to risk it," Tonilia scoffed. "I think none of us want insanity."

I snorted. "Inherent hazard of Sheogorath claiming you, I suppose."

"'Ow do you know he stole it twice?" Delvin called. "'E could have just taken it the one time and been done with it."

"I was in his memory," I reminded dully. "I was there when he killed Gallus. He didn't have the Key then. It was only after he accidentally stabbed the Guildmaster and Karliah labeled him traitor that he formulated the plan to steal the Key and get revenge. It was speaking to him in his head, and he figured it was because he'd touched it at his induction…"

Karliah had gone very pale. "He wouldn't have stolen it twice; not if that happened. To touch the Key Unsullied is to desecrate the Sepulcher, to steal it is to curse us all."

"He must have unlocked his potential or whatever just from that," Brynjolf surmised, "and stolen the thing later. No need to marry the whore if you already benefit." He seemed to suddenly realize he was standing in rather mixed company and added, with a bit of an awkward cough, "As it were."

Ingun rolled her eyes. "Another _colorful_ metaphor, brought to you by the Falkreath Clansman."

I snorted. "In any event, that does make sense, Karliah, even if the Key is only half as powerful as you say."

My cousin nodded solemnly. "Nocturnal wanted revenge, we offered it to her and hopefully are back in her favor."

"You still haven't answered the question, Ty," Ondolemar commented, sounding very much like a High Elf. "You defend the bastard. Why?"

I shot him a Neva-worthy glare. "Mercer Frey wasn't anything other than mortal—same as you, same as me. And all of us mortals have just as much a temptation to fall from the light as he did. His actions led him to ruin, led him to evil. But _inherently_, in his heart of hearts, Mercer Frey wasn't evil." I let out a worn breath. "We often forget, when dealing with villains, how similar they are to us."

"You're walking a dangerous line there, Dragonborn," Thrynn commented dryly.

I shrugged. "Things change, Thrynn. People change. We roll the dice, but it's up to the gods whether we get sixes or snake eyes."

"You make it sound like it's all up to chance," Sapphire observed quietly.

I met her gaze. "It is."

Ondolemar was immediately offended. "Akatosh leaves nothing to chance!"

I fixed him in place with a glare. "And on what do Daedra thrive?"

He folded his arms across his sternum. "So it's to be a theology lesson, then?"

"_Talos_, no," I snorted. "Do you think any of this lot would listen?"

"I think it may be a good idea, cousin," Karliah called. "Might clear a few things up."

"And answer the age-old question," Thrynn added. "Why do elves worship daedra? They seem like horrible beings—no offense, Tiberia."

I snorted and folded my arms across my chest. "Why? It's simple, really. But a bit of history, first. Tell me, my friends, what does the word 'aedra' mean in Aldmeris?" I over-annunciated the d, to make sure they weren't confusing it with modern Altmeris. I received only silence from the Guild. "Come now, Ondolemar. I know you know."

"Our ancestors," he replied crisply. "It means 'our ancestors.'"

"And 'daedra?'" I prompted.

He sighed. "'_Not _our ancestors.'"

"Precisely." I nodded. "Humans come from Aedra. That is why they are _your _ancestors. That is why Talos ascended to _their _plane of being, and why most humans worship the Nine Divines." I paused, to make sure everyone was still following. "But Elves, meanwhile, come from Daedra—_not _your ancestors. The ancient Aldmer evolved into not only the modern Altmer, but also the less-ancient-but-still-old Chimer. The Chimer then became Dunmer at the hand of the Lady Azura at the outset of the Tribunal Era. And so, the Daedra are not your ancestors, but ours. Everyone with me so far?"

They nodded, and so I continued. "The Aedra are static; they control the things that do not change. Life, death, love, time—these things are constants. They exist for every being, in every time. But the Daedra are dynamic; that is to say, all they _do _is change. Luck comes from Oblivion, as does revolution, twilight, madness, and dreams. The Daedra are _power; _the Aedra are _stability._

"Keeping that in mind, what makes a Daedra-worshipper different from an Aedra-worshipper is acceptance of change. People, as a general rule, don't like change. They find it detrimental and unnecessary. And because of this, the Daedra have been labeled as evil. But they're hardly evil; if anything, they tend to be apathetic. They're beings whose forms aren't corporeal, as opposed to locked into certain bodies as Aedra are. That is why Aedra cannot manifest on Nirn, by the way. There's no way for them to circumvent the pact Akatosh made with Saint Alessia in the First Era."

"You say Daedra cannot love," Brynjolf half-muttered, half-put forward. "Is this true?"

"Aye, it is." I nodded to him. "Daedra aren't capable of love, not really. Their relationships are built on _respect. _You worship me; I bless you. You ignore me; I ignore you. You wrong me; I wrong you. Mutual concern, mutual disrespect. That is the way of the Daedra."

"And so Elves, raised in the way of the Daedra, have trouble with love," Ingun summarized.

I shrugged. "Perhaps. Or perhaps we just weren't made that way to begin with. But now do you all see the difference? It's fundamental. Neither way is better or worse than the other—the Way of the Aedra or the Way of the Daedra. They're just inherently difference. Polar opposites."

"Then explain the Four Corners of the House of Troubles, then," Cynric called. "Explain the King of Rape and the Giver of Nightmares."

I turned to face him. "Tell me Cynric, are there no demons in your worship? I know Alduin was one."

"The Four Corners?" someone piped up. Rune, maybe?

I listed them on my fingers. "Molag Bal, Sheogorath, Mehrunes Dagon and Malacath refused to bow down to the Tribunal during the heresy years. And thus, they were labeled evil and dubbed the Four Corners. The so-called 'good' Daedra bowed to the _might _of the Tribunal."

"You don't speak highly of this Tribunal," Vex commented dryly.

"Neither would you, if you know the tale." I sighed. "But that is a story for another time. Point is, humans call Daedra evil for the main reason that they don't like change. Some, yes, I will admit I wouldn't summon if you paid me. Namira, Molag Bal, and Malacath are chief examples. But that doesn't make Daedra in general demons

"Back to the respect tangent, Nocturnal is a Daedric Prince who takes respect very seriously. Why else do you think the Thieves Guild thrives on it?" I snorted at their sudden realizations. "Mercer disrespected Nocturnal. He broke his oath, he stole her artifact, and he killed a fellow Nightingale. He could have been forgiven for the last one, but not for either of the former. And so, Nocturnal called for revenge. And here I am, the Nightingale's Talon."

"So if the Daedra _aren't _evil," Sapphire mused, "then Oblivion _isn't_ hell?"

I shook my head. "By Shor, no. Azura's realm Moonshadow is supposedly absolutely stunning, Hermaeus Mora's Apocrypha is a a giant library filled with knowledge forbidden to mortals, and Hircine's Hunting Grounds are where all the great hunters join him in the Hunt after they pass on. But then, the common perception is tainted, I suppose, by Mehrunes Dagon's failed invasion of Nirn at the end of the Third Era. You want hell? Go to Coldharbour, Molag Bal's realm, which is a decimated and desolate place, or Quagmire, Vaermina'a realm, an ever-changing nightmare. Or the infamous Deadlands of Mehrunes Dagon, the fiery and molten realm of Oblivion that nearly swallowed Cyrodiil."

"See, _that's _why people are scared of the Daedra." Vipir paused mid-thought. "And don't you carry Mehrunes Dagon's something or other?"

"Mehrunes' Razor," I supplied.

"And no," Brynjolf interrupted, "_I_ do. Failed to mention he's a demon, lass."

"First of all," I said, waggling a finger in his direction, "he's not a demon. I wouldn't throw you to the wolves like that. Second of all, Dagon is the Prince of Destruction, Revolution, Change, Ambition, and Energy. Daedra in a nutshell, really. And third of all, I carried the Razor because I am Mehrunes' Champion. You bear it with my blessing, and so he watches over you, as well."

Silence for a moment, then Delvin informed him, "I think that's a twisted way of saying she cares about you, Bryn."

I smirked. "You're not an Oblivion Walker, my friend. I am."

"I feel like asking what that is," Niruin began, "is beginning to sound rather redundant."

Even I had to laugh at that. "I wield Dawnbreaker, Meridia's gift to her champion, on a daily basis." I tapped the sword at my side. "In the past, I have also used Mehrunes' Razor, the Wabbajack, Spellbreaker, and the Sanguine Rose daily. Dealing with Daedric Artifacts at such a personal, internal, constant intensity makes me level with beings of Oblivion. But I am mortal, and will be for another century at least. Thus, I do not belong in Oblivion, but I bear its seal."

"And as you walk with the Princes in life," Karliah murmured the prayer, "so shall you in death."

"But you're not dedicated to Meridia," Tonilia piped up in a subdued manner. "Nor Mehrunes Dagon, Nocturnal, or anyone else you've said."

"True." I nodded to my Redguard friend. "I walk with Sheogorath."

Ondolemar folded his arms across his chest. "Then you walk closer to Oblivion than you know."


	71. Victory or Sovngarde

**Hey y'all, sorry about the slow update rate. Life's got me in a chokehold. Hopefully it'll loosen up soon, before I do something drastic XD**

**Anywhore, a big thank you to all you readers, lurkers, and reviewers :) You guys rock my socks. Well, if I were wearing any.**

**And the non-PM crew:**

**Lyriel: Yes, yes we shall.**

**Guest #1: Bosmer aren't daedra-worshippers. They've got their own nature pantheon. And which line of Ondolemar's did you like so much?**

**Guest #2: Why thank you :)**

**Onward**

**-)**

"_Down with Ulfric, the Killer of Kings!_

_On the day of his death we'll drink and we'll sing!_

_We're the Children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives,_

_But when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies…"_

The strains of Farkas' song followed me out into the Jorrvaskr courtyard. _The_ _Age of Aggression, _a pro-Imperial tune I tended to cut off in request for _the_ _Age of Oppression, _its pro-Stormcloak counterpart_._ It's hardly prudent to take sides in a civil war given my line of work, I know, but some things are more important than gold. Like honor. Like family. Speaking of which, I found Tiberia exactly where Aela said she'd be—sitting atop the outcropping that held the Skyforge. She sat just before it, staring blankly into space, clearly ruminating. Her face was dark, her crimson eyes far away, lost somewhere between here and Oblivion.

"I served five years under Ulfric Stormcloak," she said by means of greeting. "Five years as General Stormblade. Five years of cooling my heels in Windhelm for a cause I only ever half-believed in." She blinked, eyes refocusing on me. "Why? Why did I do it?"

"Because," I said, settling down next to her, my back to the Skyforge, "you believe in honor, in freedom, in the cause."

She studied the laces on her bracers and sang softly, almost mockingly, "_We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone,_ _For the Age of Aggression is just about done…"_ Then she turned to face me. "We live in an Age of Aggression, aye; only a fool would deny it. But what happens to we aggressors when it's over?"

"Peace, I should hope," I replied. Above our heads, the skies were darkening in the twilight, thunderheads collecting in preparation for the coming storm. "I don't know about you, Ty, but personally, I could do with a bit of peace."

Her smile was sad, her eyes far away again. "And what of the warriors? Ever seen what happens to a war veteran? He can't find where he belongs anymore. He wanders the streets hollow-eyed and broken, still fully armed."

"And just as many settle down, have a family, and make an honest living," I replied evenly. "My Da served in the Great War, you know. He came back, joined the Guild, met my mum, and the rest is history."

"He's one of the lucky ones, then," the elfling said decisively. "Every warrior I've ever met can't want to get back out and do bloody battle again. Neva, Cyrano, Avalon, Vilkas, Farkas, Aela, Vex, Delvin, Cynric…"

I couldn't help but note her word choice. "Warriors want to do battle. Soldiers want to come home."

"I'm not a soldier, though; I'm a warrior. It's in my blood, twice over. Ysgramor and the Nerevarine."

I shrugged. "Just because it's in your blood doesn't mean you have to act on it. Larceny runs thick in my family, but you don't see my cousins in the Guild, 'ey?"

Ty's face had shut down into a blank mask. "But then if I live for war, for strife…" Agent of Strife, indeed. "…then there's this integral part of me that needs conflict, almost like a gut instinct." She thumped a fist against her midsection for emphasis. "Without conflict… I become nothing."

"You, love, will never be _nothing," _I scoffed. "Don't make me rattle off all your titles."

The corner of her lips quirked upwards in a smile, and I knew then she was listening. "Thanes can be replaced, Champions rise and fall with the gods…"

"…And Dragonborn only come about once an era," I finished with her.

She nodded, and took to studying her bracers again. "I've been fighting all my life, Bryn. What… what do I do when I don't have to fight anymore? It's like Aela says—the struggle makes drawing breath worth the effort."

"You'll have plenty of struggles ahead, Guildmaster."

She shot me a look. "You know what I mean."

My turn to smirk. "Aye, I know." I glanced up the firmament, and, in an effort to get her off such dismal thoughts, asked, "Are the stars the same in Morrowind as they are in Skyrim?"

Ty nodded. "Yeah, for the most part. Same thirteen parent constellations, but our stories are different. And we don't believe each has a season the way the Imperials do. We believe each is dominant in a different night. Tonight, I see, is the Atronach." She traced the shape of the stars with one slim, blue-grey finger.

"You're brooding again," I groaned.

Her smile was sheepish. "Sorry. I can't get that damn song out of my head. So many years as a Stormcloak means I can't really deal with the pro-Imperial version. I want to bash Farkas' skull in, no matter how true the words have become…"

She was so disillusioned it hurt to witness. "Something else bothering you, lass? I'm all ears."

She absentmindedly leaned against my shoulder. "Kinkilling… why does it follow my family? Avalon's under direct order to murder me; my blood father marches to take my city; Neva's head Thalmor and they all want me dead; Almalexia murdered Indoril Nerevar at the start of the Heresy Years; Ysgramor practically wiped the Snow Elves from the face of Nirn; I am a being born to kill that which I am. I can't fathom what any of it means."

"Sheogorath's doing, perhaps," I offered only half-seriously.

But she snapped up, eyes boring into mine, sizing me up. "That… actually makes a lot of sense, Brynjolf."

"You sound _shocked."_

She snorted, and a silence settled over us, thick and heavy. "Something else on your mind, Tiberia?" I gently prodded.

She sighed, and hung her head. "I bear the blood of Ysgramor. He whose axe is named _Elf-Grinder, _whose sole purpose in life was to drive Mer from Skyrim, whose companions I now lead, however unwillingly…"

That had always bothered me. "How on Nirn were you made Harbinger, anyway?"

Tiberia sighed. "A few months before Sovngarde, the Silver Hand attacked Jorrvaskr. I'm sure you heard about it; everyone in Skyrim did. Kodlak died during that attack. I was new to the Companions, just over a year in their service, but old Kodlak Whitemane saw something in me. I still don't know what. In his journal, though, he named me Harbinger, for Vilkas was too angry, Farkas too kind, and Aela too solitary. When I went to the Tomb of Ysgramor with the rest of the Circle to cleanse his spirit of the Beast Blood, his ghost re-affirmed it. Been Harbinger ever since."

"Unwillingly," I piped up.

She nodded. "I never complained, just took up the damn mantle. No one could figure out why Vilkas hadn't been named over me—after all, he was already Master-of-Arms, and I'd just shaken the title of Whelp." Her sigh ascended to the heavens. "But Kodlak did what he did, and we had to live with it. Before Sovngarde, I had the makings of a wonderful Harbinger. But after… shit, afterwards, I was in no state to do anything other than stumble through life, half-blind, half-dead."

She turned to look me in the eye, now. "Why? Why do I do it?"

"Because you believe, Tiberia." I took her face in my hands. "You can't change the past, my friend, but you can fix your future."

"I'm not so sure I want to change the past," she admitted. "I wouldn't be me without my past. I just… wish it hadn't blown up so spectacularly. Why?"

I don't think either of us even knew what she was asking anymore. "I think, Tiberia, you're worrying about things that are in the hands of the gods."

"Perhaps," she admitted. "I still don't—" I cut her off with a kiss.

She was still in shock when I broke us far enough apart to murmur, "You worry too much."

I felt, more so than saw, her smirk. "That's actually your area of expertise, no?" She kissed me back before I could answer.

We stayed that way for Talos knows how long. I held her tightly to me, until our heartbeats regulated to the same rhythm. Normally, Tiberia Morwyn is a veritable fortress—thick walls, heavy artillery, the vulnerable parts stripped away and carted off somewhere else where they'd be safe—but when we did this, she was something else. Something less angry, something less hard-shelled and battle-scarred and more… human. Well, elfish. Elven? I'm never sure what the right adjective is. Took me long enough to figure they prefer to be called Dunmer over Dark Elves.

What broke us apart wasn't either of us, the cold, or even the deepening darkness. What broke us apart, I couldn't believe my lass, the werewolf, didn't hear coming. _I_ didn't hear it, but in my defense, I'm only human and the lass is rather distracting when she puts her mind to it. And especially when she doesn't.

Heavy, thundering footsteps reached the top of the stairs just after their owner began speaking a thick, accented voice: "Harbinger, there are… oh!" I had my back to the stairs, but I could tell the third party reached the landing. "Apologies! I'll just, ah, be going."

"I can _smell_, Vilkas," Tiberia snarled from her vantage point with me. "I know they're here. I figured you could handle them." But the younger Twin's footsteps were receding already, and I didn't need Beast Blood to tell me he was furious.

I rose to my feet, bringing Tiberia with me, not quite against her will, but pretty damn close. "There's no way you didn't hear him," I observed quietly.

Ty smirked. "I heard him. I smelled him. I could practically _feel_ the vibrations of his footsteps all the way up here."

My brow furrowed. "So why didn't you _say _something?" After all, I hardly needed to give Vilkas Jergenson _more _ammunition against me.

"What, and miss out on a perfect opportunity for revenge? Hardly. Now come on." She tugged my arm gently, calling for me to follow. "There are Newcomers to our hall, and I don't recognize them. Be on your guard."

"Right," I said with a nod, absentmindedly running my fingers over the hilt of the Daedric War Axe in my belt.

Ty and I made our way back into Jorrvaskr and we couldn't have been in the door ten seconds before Ty was set upon by underlings. (This is why I do not envy her job. Any of them.) Across the way, just before the door, stood two cloaked, shadowy figures. One was clearly larger, broader in the shoulder—_must be a man_—and the other was shorter, its cloak falling differently—_must be a woman._ The entire room was on edge, hands on hilts of sword and axe alike, Companions taut and Thieves tense, ready for a fight or flight.

Then Tiberia strode forward: "I am Harbinger Morwyn; what brings you to our hall?"

The larger figure flipped its hood down. "Dragonborn, we wish to fight with you."

My heart skipped a beat—l knew that voice, that face. Sure, it was older now, the beard full and frame filled out, but I knew this man. I knew him as a boy, swapping stories with Raynor and teaching me clan lore. He had always been welcome at Sundas dinner in my family's home, my brother and I at his. His intense auburn hair had cooled over the years, but his eyes hadn't. My cousin Regan was as astute as he'd ever been.

"Regan!" I exclaimed, striding forward to meet him. "By Talos, it's been too long."

My cousin's severe face cracked a smile. "Brynjolf! Aye lad, too long indeed, you're full grown!"

I smirked as we clasped forearms. "And Aisling refused to be left at home, no?"

The smaller figure flipped its hood down, and proved me right. My cousin Aisling, Regan's younger sister, was older now, pretty in her own right. Her hair was a deep mahogany, pulled back in Nordic braids not unlike Tiberia or Aela. She had eyes of the brightest green, and, if memory served, a tongue that cracked like a whip.

"You're damn right I wouldn't," Aisling snapped back. Good to know she hadn't changed, either.

"Bryn, you know them?" Tiberia asked, one eyebrow in her hairline.

I nodded. "Aye, these are my cousins."

"I thought I recognized them," Karliah offered, "but one human is very much like another."

"Heard that," Ondolemar muttered.

Ty laughed at that. "Well, Clansmen are always welcome anywhere I call home. Come, dry yourselves out by the fire."

"One would hope," Regan said with a poorly-concealed smirk as Aisling tapped the first finger of her right hand pointedly.

Tiberia's countenance darkened. "By the bloody Nine, if I'd known I'd be accosted for this thing every other day, I'd be wearing it around my neck!"

Some hearty chuckles at that, especially from Njada, who'd grown up in Falkreath Hold, and Vilkas, who just liked making fun of the engagement. "Hey now," Aisling said mock-sternly, "a man's clan ring is always to be worn proudly… even if it is Brynjolf's."

"And what's wrong with mine, lass?" I fired back on Ty's behalf.

Aisling smirked as she and her brother made their way over to the fire. "Any woman who would willingly bind herself to you is a few eggs short of a dozen, no?"

Tiberia—of all people—burst out laughing. "Aisling," she said, throwing an arm around my cousin's shoulder, "tell me—what have you heard of Sheogorath?"

There are definite upsides to courting a daedra-worshipper. Aisling's face after that comment was one of them.


	72. Of Talos and Tribunal

**I love the pantheons in the Elder Scrolls games. Absolutely fascinating :)**

**Anywho, a major thank you to all you readers, lurkers, reviewers, subscribers, and followers :) You guys are the best.**

**Hey oh, undead let's go!**

**-)**

The arrival of Brynjolf's cousins was a welcome distraction from the growing tension in Jorrvaskr. The Guild was on-edge at the coming of a war. They weren't made for open combat, not really. Sure, they could pick up a sword and fight as well as the next bugger, but they didn't have the mentality of warriors. They were just thieves who paid their debts. The Companions were apprehensive for another reason: they just couldn't wait for the damn thing to start! But Ulfric was still a few weeks off, thanks to the mud and the size of his army. Never in my life had I been so thankful for Skyrim's never-ending precipitation.

Jarl Balgruuf, Commander Caius, and I quickly discovered that our scant numbers weren't going to hold Whiterun by any traditional means—Ulfric was bringing the entirety of the Stormcloak army, by the scouting reports. Balgruuf hated fighting dirty, and Caius found it distasteful, but I had no problem with it. After all, so long as we didn't break any rules of open engagement, who the hell cared whether we fought like the Imperial Legion or the Forsworn? Whatever works, 'ey?

With the Niruin's help, I began circulating rumors throughout Whiterun. Some of the more active citizens took the hin and began slipping out under cover of darkness and engaging in hit-and-run raids on Ulfric's men. Over time, these raids would make a sizeable dent in the Stormcloak army, especially when coupled with those coming from citizens of the Pale and the Rift. It seemed our half of Skyrim was keen on seeing the Bear of Markarth finally fall. He'd betrayed us all, in working with the Thalmor.

Oh, I should probably mention his commanding officers. The first time I heard of them, I had originally been unsurprised—Galmar Stone-Fist, Brigadier General; Jorlief, war councilman; Rulindil, Third Emissary of the Thalmor in Skyrim, now another war councilman. But then, reports started coming in that a Dunmeri woman was in his ranks: First Emissary of Skyrim, and by all accounts, terrifying and ruthless.

The information stopped me cold—Ulfric had Neva on his council.

But having Thalmor with him had destroyed any faith a fair lot of Skyrim had for him. The Empire was calling for his blood, and now, so were many of kin. Siding with the Thalmor was unforgivable, especially for one who'd suffered at their hands during the Great War and fought the Empire to keep them off Skyrim's shores. Even Eastmarch wasn't so sure of their hero anymore.

But, as I've discovered tends to happen when I get involved as Dragonborn, an army of sorts began collecting behind me, en masse. First came Bryn's cousins, Regan and Aisling, terrifying warriors even on the practice field. I cannot tell you how many times I had to heal whomever they were sparring with. After them came the Blades—Delphine, Esbern, and some of the recruits they'd gathered over the years (which hardly endeared them to me).

"Get out," I said at once. "You are unwelcome here."

"Easy, Ty," Vilkas ordered. The Companions had begun to switch off calling me Morwyn and Tiberia. "We're in desperate need of soldiers."

"We can do without these," I snarled, staring down Delphine's cold, calculating gaze with a hearty glare.

It wasn't until she fell to her knees before me, and presented her Akaviri Sword that I relented. But they slept in the Bannered Mare. I was desperate for troops, not stupid.

After the Blades came Ralof and a few of his ex-Stormcloak war buddies. Some of them, I'd served alongside too. I remembered faces from delving into Korvanjund, from putzing around army camps all across Skyrim. All of them were disgusted with Ulfric's Thalmor friends, and wanted to crack some skulls. Well gentlemen, I remember telling them, you've come to the right place.

My housecarls began filtering in next. Lydia, obviously, was on board, but Calder drifted over from Windhelm next. Then Jordis Shield-Maiden from Solitude and Argis the Bulwark from Markarth trickled in. (I'm not Thane of Markarth, but I _do _own a house over there. Failed attempt to offload gold, I'm afraid. Argis didn't seem to mind getting out of the Understone Keep, though.) These four stayed in Breezehome—too many people in Jorrvaskr already.

And still, more came. Some were just citizens who wanted to fight the good fight under the second Dragonborn General. Who could fault them for that? As this happened, Jarl Balgruuf actually opened Dragonsreach's lower levels as sleeping quarters. There were guards posted round the clock by his and his children's doors, of course, but no one could blame him for that. We _were _in a war, after all.

A wrench was thrown in the rather smooth operation by the arrival of some of my colleagues from the College of Winterhold. Master Wizard (and Master of Alteration) Tolfdir was the first to enter Jorrvaskr, which I considered a very smart move on the mages' part. He was hardly the most dangerous of the group. Of course, dear J'zargo, Onmund, and Brelyna Maryon were next, claiming there was no way in Oblivion they would let me fight alone. We'd all been initiates together, way back when, and it was good to see that they were as obstinate in the face of blatant Nord mistrust (and occasional flat-out hatred) as I was. Master of Conjuration Phinis Gestor also joined the fray (as if the Companions already didn't distrust mages _enough), _as well as Master of Destruction Faralda (the other Altmer on my roster) and Master of Restoration Colette Marence (insufferable as ever). The Companions insisted the mages stay out of Jorrvaskr, and so old Vignar was eventually wrangled into allowing them to stay in House Grey-Mane. His children were not pleased.

Next came someone I never thought I'd see again.

"…I went to Riften to join the Guild, and your bartender told me they were all in Whiterun," a familiarly accented voice was saying as I made my way up the stairs and into the Jorrvaskr's main room. "So, here I am."

Brynjolf was sizing the newcomer up, arms folded across his chest. "It's hardly prudent to take on new members, given the state of things."

The recruit, a Dunmer, nodded. "I can understand that. But at least allow me to fight with you. Prove my worth that way, ey?"

Brynjolf shrugged, and smirked good-naturedly. "I suppose. But you'll have to ask the Guildmaster."

"The more the merrier," I called, fully prepared to make that the end of the conversation. But then the recruit turned around.

There was disbelieving silence between the two of us for a good long moment as we scrutinized each other. Dunmer, blue-grey skin, hide armor, and deep brown hair slicked back and away from a long, lean face. He was a good deal older than I remembered, which I found odd, since elves age very gradually. "Tiberia?" he called quietly, shocked into stillness. "Little Tiberia Morwyn? Is that you?"

I smiled despite myself, a small and underused thing. "Ravyn Imyan, it is good to see you!"

He embraced me then, roughly yet politely, much like an older brother. He pulled away after a moment and held me by my shoulders, shaking his head in disbelief even as he studied me. "The last time I saw you, you were this tall!" He marked a spot just above his belt with one hand. "Now look at you; you're a woman proper." His smile was sad. "Where does the time go?"  
"Ty, you know him?" Brynjolf asked, surprised.

I nodded to him. "Aye, this is Ravyn, one of Avalon's good friends from the Morag Tong. It's no wonder he's seeking the Thieves Guild. It's that or the Dark Brotherhood, in Skyrim."

He nodded. "Maybe your sister can stomach working for the Brotherhood, but I cant."

Ah, good, he knew about Avalon. "Have you seen her lately?'

Ravyn shook his head now. "I ran into her in Windhelm last Rain's Hand. She seemed happy enough, all things considered. We both miss the Tong, though."

"Ever the master of the understatement, 'ey Ravyn?"

His face cracked into a genuine smile. "And you're just as quick as your sisters, sera."

With so many extra people in Jorrvaskr, privacy was quickly becoming a thing of the past. The Guild was unperturbed by this, being used to it from the Cistern. Anyone who had any military experience under his or her belt was much the same. But the Companions were clearly discomforted. They were used to retiring to solace after a long day, not shared living quarters and other people. There was one day where I eventually couldn't take the togetherness and I left Jorrvaskr slightly before sundown, just to walk the streets of Whiterun alone with just my thoughts.

But I reached the Gildergreen plaza and was surprised to find that someone had actually taken the time to sit down and listen to Heimskr—I was even more shocked to realize it was Ondolemar. The crazy old priest of Talos was happy as a clam to be spouting off wisdom about his protector god, while Ondolemar was seated on one of the benches, listening with surprising intent. I blinked once, twice, thrice. Nope, still there. Interesting.

To listen in, I padded over to the statue of Talos and knelt before the shrine, placing my hands on the stone hammer, worn smooth by so many hands before mine. Immediately, I felt this surging warmth blast through my veins, and my aches began to fall away, one by one. I glanced up to the statue of Talos Stormcrown, looking fierce as any Daedra with his sword poised over a serpentine dragon, held in place by his foot. I heard Heimskr behind me: "…Talos is the true god of man! Ascended from flesh, to rule the realm of spirit! The very idea is inconceivable to our Elven overlords! Sharing the heavens with us? With man? Ha! They can barely tolerate our presence on earth!"

"SO PISS OFF, HIGH ELF!" Someone shouted from across the way, and Ondolemar, Heimskr, and myself were all snapped out of whatever spell the old priest had been weaving.

"YEAH, PISS OFF, GOLDENROD!" someone else shouted. "FILTHY THALMOR, EVERY LAST GODS-DAMNED ONE OF YOU! ALL FLASH AND NO THUNDER!"

"ENOUGH!" I shouted across the plaza, silencing the two drunken idiots from the Bannered Mare. The Thu'um was laced in the word, and the world seemed to shake. "YOU WANT TO GET TO THE GUILD? YOU GO THROUGH ME!"

That sent them running with a "Damned grey-skin… who made her Dragonborn?" and a "Of course _she'd _stick up for the bastard. Elves are all the same."

The racism in Skyrim is just _astounding._

"I didn't realize you cared," Ondolemar commented dryly, now on his feet with his arms across his chest.

I shot him a look. "Can't have the Guild looking weak with war on the horizon."

"Of course. The Guild. Forgive me; I assumed the worst of you."

Hemiskr, sensing the building tension, skittered off with some excuse about finding dinner. That left just me and Ondolemar in the rising twilight, Talos Stormcrown watching over us. "You wouldn't be the first," I shot back.

He sighed, and turned back to face the statue. "I don't have the energy or the patience to argue with you right now, Guildmaster. Kindly leave me be."

But something wouldn't let me leave the plaza. So instead, I folded my arms across my chest and studied the statue of Talos as though it held the meaning of life. "You were actually _listening _to Heimskr," I said after a few long moments of silence. "You must be the first person since… well, me, shortly after I became Dragonborn. Why?"

Ondolemar sighed again, realizing there was no way he was going to be able to meditate so long as I was around. "Your theology lesson the other day just rekindled an old curiosity, is all. The Thalmor outlawed Talos worship on the grounds that no human could ever become divine, but never told us more than that. Never thought we needed to know more."

I knew Ondolemar at least _that_ well. "And so you've always wanted to."

He nodded, a faint smile on his face. "I don't worship Daedra, but I wanted to understand why Neva and Avalon did. The Thalmor had no trouble with that; Dark Elves are our cousins. But when I requested information about the Divines from the library, every single book had the sections about Talos either blacked out or torn away completely."

The more I heard about the Thalmor, the more I wanted to paint the snows of Skyrim crimson with their blood. "Censorship is unforgivable."

"So are a lot of things the Thalmor do," Ondolemar countered quietly, "and yet they still do them. Coincidence? I think not."

I cocked an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"

Ondolemar shrugged again. "Tell me, my Dunmeri cousin, what was the heresy of the Tribunal?"

I was taken aback. "You know this."

"Say I don't. What was so terrible?"

"Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and Vivec made themselves gods with the Heart of Lorkhan." The weight of generational lore was heavy in my words. "They scorned the Daedra, thinking themselves above them. Almalexia killed her husband, Indoril Nerevar, because he saw the destruction the Heart of Lorkhan would surely cause. And Azura smote the Chimer because of the folly of the Tribunal. Made them into Dunmer.

"But the Tribunal won over the minds of this new merfolk. Told them the Daedra were things of the past, that we were now so civilized that we could talk to our gods _directly. _No more need for ritual and sacrifice, our gods were _right here, _on Nirn, on Mundus.

"But when Nerevar died, Azura made a prophecy alongside her curse. She promised to reincarnate Indoril Nerevar and put right this heresy. And it happened, a good many years later. The Nerevarine, a Dunmer outlander, eventually brought down the Tribunal, with the help of the God-Poet Vivec, who saw that stopping Dagoth Ur, the beast in Red Mountain, was more important than his stolen godhood. And that, Ondolemar, is the story of the Tribunal Heresy. I know you know it; why do you ask it of me?"

There was another long silence. Then:

"If I asked for the story of Talos, could you tell it?"

"You've just heard it ad nauseam for the past hour. If anything, you should be able to tell _me_. What's this about, Ondolemar?"

There was a major silence between us. "I'm wondering," he finally said quietly, speaking every word with punctuated crispness, "why men can withstand divinity, and mer can't?"

The question knocked me back, I was so unexpected. "Because," I answered evenly, "Mer stole it, men were granted it."

Ondolemar turned to face me, now. "But _why? _Why did the Aedra raise up a man—a very flawed man, by some accounts—and if he _was _man, and not aedra from the start, how is he divine now? It makes no sense."

I sighed. I'd asked those same questions once, not so long ago. "When I first learned I was Dragonborn," I began quietly, "I studied with the Greybeards for a time up on High Hrothgar. They had me meditate on the teachings of Jergen Windcaller and Vivec the God-Poet, on the life of Talos Stormcrown, better known as Tiber Septim. And I asked those same questions. And do you know what they told me?'

"What?"

"Nothing. Men don't have any better of an answer than we do. So I pondered it myself, and do you know what I came up with?"

"Something that I'm sure is vastly more helpful than your previous answer?"

"Perhaps." I cracked a smile. "I came to the conclusion that men live half as long as mer, if they're lucky—but they burn twice as bright."

Realization flickered across Ondolemar's bronze features as though he'd just lit a candle. "And in their short lives, they have a greater drive to achieve."

I nodded. "They, more often than not, are better people in seventy years than Mer are in two-hundred and seventy. We spend so much time worrying about offending someone who won't get back at us until decades down the road, we forget, sometimes, that we live now."

"And humans, who live now, hardly ever plan for tomorrow. They say what they think, act as they see fit, lash out in imprudent ways. An interesting difference of thought, no?" The Altmer paused, and slowly grinned. "Not unlike yourself, muthsera."

"Yes, but that's because I'm half…" I stopped short, realization cracking like a raw egg over my head. "I'm half _human_."

"Aye, Stormcloak's daughter, no?"

"Ondolemar," I said, urgently quiet, "if I'm half human, what does that mean for my lifespan?"

His eyes widened in shock, and he uttered the words I never thought I'd hear a Thalmor say: "I don't know."

My head was spinning. All my life I'd been raised to believe that I was Dunmer, that I had upwards of two centuries on Nirn. Never once since I learned of my true heritage had I paused to think of what being Nord did to my lifespan. "Merciful Talos…"

"All you can do," Ondolemar said, recovering admirably from the shock, "is gauge yourself. See how you feel in thirty years, when you're my age. And in another thirty. If the human wins, you'll be dead by then. If the elf does, you'll be like Avalon."

I snorted. "Comforting."

"No more so than outliving your husband, I should say."

Oh gods, _Brynjolf_. "I always figured I would outlive him, but… maybe I won't."

Ondolemar pinned me to the spot with a surprisingly pitying glance. "There are worse things than growing old with those you love."

"Can elves even love? I don't think we can."

"Bullshit," he scoffed, and a disbelieving bark of laughter escaped from me at the vulgarity. High Elves never brought themselves so low. "You and Brynjolf are proof enough of that."

"Bryn's not an elf."

"Then I guess that makes you case one." He shot me a look. "The problem isn't that elves _can't _love, it's that we don't _allow _ourselves to. Arrangements do not happy marriages make. Children should be seen and not heard. Noblemen and –women hardly ever raise their own children. We dismantle these bonds that the humans have, and we think ourselves stronger for it."

"Nords have such large families," I commented, almost absentmindedly, "and three generations may live under the same roof. And each does his part…" I shot him a glance. "…no more or less. And the ties that bind them are so strong they transcend death. There are no Waiting Doors here, no bone chimes, or ghostfences. Sprits just… _are."_

"They live in the hearts of those they leave behind, aye."

"And in their songs and clan lore."

We exchanged a look, and something broke between us. I knew then, nothing would ever be the same, not between us.

"I think," said my High Elf friend after a moment "that we are the knowledgeable race, and humans, the wise one."

We stood there until the last of the light had left the sky, watching the shadows sink lower and lower over Talos' stone-wrought face.


	73. Becoming Whole

**Hey everybody! And to all you Americans, happy Thanksgiving! And to everyone else, happy random Thursday! :D As always, I thank you all for your support of this story. You guys are the best :)**

**Onward.**

**-)**

The world was amber-colored, vaguely sweet, sonically distorted, and rather sticky that morning.

At least, it was until Farkas violently yanked me out of the keg by the scruff of my neck. On my left, his brother was going through a similar ordeal. Both Vilkas and I were coughing and spluttering when we resurfaced, while Farkas was glowering over us from his full height. Not a word was spoken between the spluttering Master-of-Arms and the coughing Guildmaster. "…And I'm not putting up with it anymore! Ether you two calm the hell down and get along, or _so help me Talos, I will take care of this myself!"_ Farkas thundered.

This was not the first time I'd been waterboarded alongside Vilkas by an irate Farkas. (This used to happen so regularly some of the locals set their clocks by it, as a matter of fact.) It was, however, the first time he'd done it so publically. Granted, Vilkas and I had been moments away from letting the Blood take over, but hey. That's an occupation hazard, far as I'm concerned.

"I will stand here until _New Life," _Farkas growled at our silence.

The entire training ground of Jorrvaskr was silent as Necrom; you could have heard a pin drop. Various Thieves, Mages, and Companions had been sparring in the open area. All of them had been silenced when Vilkas and I started going at it. He had a talent like no other to get under my skin, and always has. I think he enjoys goading me into the Beast Form, in all honesty. The wolf doesn't think twice about attacking me. The man has to.

"This is rather private, Farkas," Vilkas finally managed to get out. His hair was awkwardly disheveled thanks to his up-close-and-personal with a barrel of Black-Briar Select a few moments ago. I shuddered to think what mine looked like.

"You've long since given up your right to that," Farkas scoffed, his hands still at the backs of our necks. "You are _Soul-Shields_. Start acting like it, for Azura's sake!" That was an appeal to me. Saw right through it.

"The Circle is one," Farkas prompted after a moment.

"The Circle is one," Vilkas and I repeated at once.

"Go on, then." Farkas finally released us, and we stood uneasily at a crossroads.

So Vilkas and I did what we always did when we needed to sort out a problem—we fought.

We squared up across from each other in the sparring circle, soundlessly drawing our weapons. "Is this such a great idea?" Sapphire asked Aela tentatively.

"Child of Talos," Aela laughed, slinging an arm around Sapphire's shoulders, "this is the _best _idea."

The first clang rang out before she'd even finished speaking. I'd caught Vilkas' broadsword with two skyforged swords—no way was I wearing down Dawnbreaker on a fight like this. "You are an _absolutely _impossible woman, you know that?" Vilkas barked as he disengaged and attacked again.

I blocked his feint and replied in kind. "And you're one to talk?"

"At least I can…" pause for grunt when first blood was mine. "…hold a conversation without biting _your _head off!"

_Clang! _"Yes, clearly!"

There was a heavy silence as we struggled for dominance. Neither of us would win—we never did—but that wasn't the point. The point lay in the struggle. When I'd first come to Jorrvaskr, Kodlak had Vilkas test my arm, not unlike he was doing now. And then, like now, we were so evenly matched (in a wide disparity of attributes) that winning was impossible.

"You know what your problem is, Jergenson?" I snapped over our blades. "You don't know when to quit!"

"And you know what your problem is, Morwyn? You don't know how to back the _fuck _off!"

I leveled him with a glare. "That's the same problem, icebrain."

"Where is this antagonism coming from?" He asked, sounding genuinely confused and exasperated. "You weren't this bad when you got here…" He paused to do some mental math in the midst of a swordfight. Never may it be said that the man had no chutzpah. "…eight years ago!"

"I was sacred of my own shadow eight years ago!" I exclaimed, dismissing the point with a flick of the wrist. "Mighty Azura, you can hardly use _that _as an excuse."

"You were not scared of your own shadow," he scoffed, parrying with an easier rhythm now. "Me and Farkas, sure. Even Torvar, I think. But not _that_."

"See? There you go again!" _Crash, clang! _"Contradicting me, questioning me—why? _Why _do you do it!? It's absolutely aggravating!"

Vilkas disarmed me in one swift movement, though in the process he lost his own blade. His brow furrowed as our gazes leveled out. He annunciated every word sharply: "You asked me to."

My brow furrowed, even as my hands automatically came up in front of my face to protect it. "I never did that."

"Yes you did!" Vilkas assured me, bringing his own hands up to block his face. "It was right after you became Harbinger—which, admittedly, sort of got dumped in your lap. If Kodlak had been around another few months, he'd have seen you really weren't cut out for the position."

"You watch your tongue!" He ducked under a roundhouse kick and replied with an elbow aimed somewhere around my ribs. "But I will grant you that about Kodlak."

He was shaking his head, even as he combated me, hand-to-hand. "You didn't always have this unshakable faith in yourself, you know." A lucky strike—a foot hooked behind me knee—sent me into a sprawl. He caught me just before I hit the ground. "It had to be created."

"Yes, yes," I brushed him off, calculating. "The Companions turned the prickly Elf princess into a Nord, a Daughter of Talos. Save it. I've heard it."

"If you'd stop _interrupting_ me every time I spoke, you'd…" The rest of his sentence was lost to time when I took out _his _knees and planted both hands firmly on his shoulders to swing myself up and over his head.

"I'm listening," I mocked as I more-or-less gracefully landed on my feet just behind him.

For a Nord the size of a small mammoth, Vilkas could move pretty fast when he was of a mind. He was already up and on his feet. "You're never listening. You hear, but you don't listen."

"How _dare _you!" The mead was running into my eyes, making them sting and water. "You accuse _me _of hearing without listening? _How_ many times have I had to turn you down?"

Vilkas leveled me in one of his world-class glares. From under his mead-soaked hair, it shot me back to an earlier time—before titles, before factions, before engagements, before any of it. "Oh, let's see—once pre-, once post-Sovngarde, and once when I wasn't even expecting a response? That's moot." _Thump._

His fist connected solidly with my sternum, driving the breath from my lungs. "Sovngarde screwed us over," I wheezed.

"It really did," he agreed, pausing in his onslaught until I could breathe again. "You came back _looking _like the same person, even acting like her, sometimes. But then…"

My eyes widened, and I almost forgot to divert his oncoming punch. Almost. "Then the dynamic changed."

Seizing the opportunity, Vilkas pressed the advantage. "What're you on about?"

"The dynamics." Block, parry, break… aaaannnnddd that would be a black eye in the morning. "We're not who we were, yeah?"

"Merciful Talos," he swore, half in response to my words, half in response to my punch, "I should think not."

"Look, it's simple. You, my friend, innately feel the need to protect the ones you care about." _Thump, whump. _I hissed in pain when I missed a parry. "I no longer need protected. You can't reconcile it in your mind, can you?"

Something clicked in the back of his mind. "That's what you meant by 'I am my own Guardian…'" I nodded over a flurry of fists and feet and anything else we felt like throwing. "The Morwyn I knew all those years ago needed someone to watch over her. Needed someone to remind her she didn't need to check her mead for poison or her sheets for vipers. But you… you don't."

"I was a by-product of Neva's lamentable parenting skills," I reminded dully, planting a solid stomp kick in his gut. "And even shittier sister-ing skills."

"Yeah, I don't doubt that." He chuckled blackly over the fight. "But I…" he dropped off into silence, using the momentary reprise to press an advantage. "…You're not the same woman I once knew. Even the Beast knows."

"The Beast is you, icebrain." The insult had nowhere near the venom of a few minutes ago. I feigned like I was going to attack one side, and instead attacked the other.

"I _meant, _wolves identify by smell. You don't even _smell _the same."

My brow furrowed. "I don't?"

"No." He shook his head, admirably blocking me regardless. "I mean, your core is the same. Ash and steel, Daedric Magic and that of the Ancient Nords. But that other part of you…"

I knew what he meant. "The part that came from being with you."

He nodded. "It's not me you smell like anymore." Another pause as we fought again, and his gaze flickered to Brynjolf more than once in the interim. "…I guess you don't need me anymore, do you?"

"Of course I need you, idiot," I shot right back. "We're Soul-Shields, you're one of my best friends—even if I do want to smash your skull sometimes for being so insufferable. Just… not like I used to."

Another silence, but this one wasn't so aggressive. And maybe that was because by this point, a fair portion of the inhabitants of the practice yard had dissipated out of politeness. The only ones that remained were close enough to one or both of us that they, quite frankly, _needed_ to witness it.

"And what I meant," I offered up, "when we last spoke, I still mean. I'm sorry, but it just doesn't change a damn thing."

"Yeah, well." _Thump, thump! _"I had to try. Can't blame a man for that."

"No, I understand." _I understand. _Now there were words seldom spoken between us. "I'm just tired of walking on eggshells around you."

"Yeah, well, so am I. Guess we're even on that account." I used the momentary lull to springboard off his back and out of his range. "So let's start this over, 'ey?"

"Sounds like a plan, old friend."

Both my hands and his dropped in unison. "Hi," he said, painfully aware of how ridiculous his words sounded. "I'm Vilkas. I'm kind of an asshole and have a deplorable habit of screwing my life up. And you are?"

"I'm Tiberia," I replied, and somewhere, Sheogorath was smiling. "I'm brash, I'm loud, and I will make it my life's work to annoy the hell out of you."

I could hear laughter rising throughout the yard, could pick out Aela's and Farkas', Brynjolf's and Karliah's. Neither Vilkas nor I raised our hands again. Something between us had broken. Something that had been steadying building itself since before I'd left for Sovngarde. Something thick, and dark, and black.

Vilkas held up both hands at about eye level, palms facing out, questioningly. I knew exactly what he was asking, and was, in a word, shocked. "You can still feel my soul?" I asked quietly.

His brow furrowed. "Of course. Can't you do the same?"

I shook my head. "No. Not since the Fire of Mercy."

"That… explains so much." Vilkas' tone was halfway between pitying and enlightened.

I knew what I had to do. So I brought my hands up to meet his. Our fingertips pressed together, and then the last dam between us broke. Like those of the _dovah, _our souls rose from their mortal shells, swirling around their owners in a haze of orange and red. The Beasts broke away first, landing by our feet and padding forward out of curiosity. The blue spirit-wolves threw back their ears simultaneously and snarled, then Vilkas' let out a happy bark and the two proceeded to wrestle like pups.

On the side opposite the wolves were our smallest selves, little Vilkas and the elfling Tiberia. Neither of us could have been any older than about five in that spirit form. Miniature caricatures of ourselves, little Tiberia popped the child Vilkas between the eyes, and took off running, laughing all the while. Her counterpart let out a strangled, high-pitched, "HEY!" and took off after her.

Once upon a time, this last part happened with our foreheads pressed together (and about six inches lower, too), but this time we kept our distance. Something large, scaly, and winged broke free of my back, letting loose with a glorious roar. A mere man had no counterpart for it, but Vilkas' soul rushed over me to meet the _dovah, _anyway. They grappled for a moment, then fell into harmony as easily as a song. Slowly, each part of ourselves retreated back to the whole.

I didn't even realized I'd closed my eyes until it was over, and Vilkas and I were standing in the middle of the Jorrvaskr training yard, not unlike we used to do all the time. (Well, maybe not all, but certainly often.) Absurd laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep within me, and I couldn't stifle it.

"Oh, what?" Vilkas snapped.

Ah, there was the Vilkas I knew. "You look like a fool." And true, he did. The mead was half-dried in his hair, gotten tangled up in it all the way down.

My laughter was infectious—or he was preemptively laughing at his rebuttal. "Do I? Well, you remember that time Jarl Balgruuf invited High King Torygg and now-Jarl Elisif to Whiterun for New Life?"

I nodded, still laughing. "Yeah, and we threw her rat dog into the cistern pools at the foot of the Jarl's palace?"

He nodded. "That is what _you_ look like."

I lost it. _He _lost it. It had been so long since we'd been able to laugh in each other's presence, I wasn't entirely sure I'd be able to stop. I could hear, vaguely, Farkas and Aela explaining the story to Bryn and Karliah, cracking up all the while. After what seemed like an eternity, we regained control over ourselves.

"Want to go jump in the river?" I asked.

Vilkas broke out into a genuine smile. "Thought you'd never ask."


	74. Interlude

**Feliz something! :D I'll just set this chapter right here.**

**And as always, a big thank you to all my wonderful readers, lurkers, and reviewers :) y'all are the best.**

**-)**

Life with Vilkas had never been easy, and especially not after our failed courtship, but after the debacle in the sparring ground, I think we both understood each other at least a little better. No longer was there tension between us, no longer did we hold back. What we thought, we said. Something had snapped us back into the places we'd begun and, in all honesty, it was a relief. I hadn't expected to hold onto him as a friend, not after all we'd been through. But enough philosophy.

We got back from quite literally jumping in the river just in time for dinner. I think Tilma was actually crying as she served the food, she was so relieved to see the family getting along again. Everyone else either treated the fight as thought it didn't exist, or chalked it up to Vilkas-and-Tiberia-are-always-going-at-it.

That night, I couldn't sleep. The Blood was being especially restless this night, and so I eventually gave up. I threw on a robe over my sleeping clothes (no shifts for me, not since I've had to sleep outside so often) and tiptoed over my sleeping Guildsisters to go sit by the fire in the main room a while. Being a Dunmer, fire of any sort is always soothing to a troubled mind. As I padded quietly down the hall, I heard so much snoring that I thought was safe in assuming the entire population of Jorrvaskr was asleep.

Imagine my surprise when I reach the main room and find Brynjolf with his back against one of the pillars, intent on something in a journal in his lap. He was in his own sleeping gear, but appeared wide-awake. He glanced up at the intrusion, and his face broke into a smile when he saw it was only me. He gestured for me to join him, and so I padded over, fully intending to claim the floor next to him. Should have known he'd trip me so I ended up in his lap.

"Can't sleep?" I asked by means of greeting, giving on up struggling out of his grasp.

Brynjolf's smile was genuine, happy in his small victory. "Don't want to. You?"

"Can't. Why don't you want to? I've always rather enjoyed sleep."

"This." And he slid the journal into my hands, open to a particular page.

I'd forgotten Brynjolf kept a journal of drawings, forgotten that his talent was so breathtaking. The piece he had opened to consisted of both halves. On the left, he'd drawn me in profile, my lips pulled back in a battle-snarl, eyes narrowed, anger etched in every feature. My hair was sopping wet and sticking up in every which way, parted over my pointed ears the way it was wont to do when damp. Behind me, seeming simultaneously wisp-like and solid on the page, was a rather large dragon, its wings unfurled right off the page. It was bursting from my back, as it did in life.

On the right was Vilkas' profile. The Companion was clearly shouting himself, hands up near his shoulders partly in supplication and partly in his defense. Fury marked him as it did me, and his wet hair was impressively disheveled. Looming behind him was his Beast, a large, dark wolf. Its eyes glinted behind so much fur, and it seemed much more solid than my _dovah _had. But I figured that was because Vilkas' inner Beast was also his werewolf form.

"That's… that's… _wow, _Bryn."

"Flatterer," he accused, reclaiming his journal.

"I'm serious!" I half-turned in his arms to get a read on his face. "You're a talented artist, my friend."

"It's just practice," he scoffed, and then grew quiet.

"Is that what it looks like, to other people?" I asked quietly. "The Soul Ritual?"

His eyes met mine, the emerald and the crimson. "What _was _that?"

I smiled wanly. "I've told you the Soul-Shield legend, right? How in Companion Lore, when two people have such fluid and complementary styles, it's as though they're protecting each other's souls, as well as their physical bodies?" At Bryn's nod, I continued, "Well, it's hard to protect what you can't see."

"That still doesn't explain…"

"It's ancient Nedic magic," I offered up, "from the time of Ysgramor. It's a way to connect on a more personal level than mere shield-siblings. The different projections represent different facets of a person—the child, innocence; the Beast, fury. Can't tell you more than that, I'm afraid. The knowledge is lost."

Bryn's facial expression tightened. "You're not making me feel any better about it, lass."

"Oh!" I felt a flush creeping across my face. "Forgive me, I didn't stop to think what it would mean for you…"

"I'm happy you and Vilkas are getting along again," Brynjolf interrupted. "Don't mistake that. Guildsiblings shouldn't be at each other's throats the way you two were. It's just… _shit, _lass, he's in your _soul!"_

I bowed my head, the wolf's sign of apology. "I wish I knew what to tell you, Brynjolf. I can't just sever the connection."

"Nor would I ever ask you to. What you have is…" Insert frustrated sigh here. "…isn't something to be thrown away. I just… I don't know, it's not as petty as jealousy, but it's in the realm."

"You don't like it." Not a question. "But it was in place before I knew you."

"That's why I can hardly be mad about it, now can I? It's no one's fault you joined the Companions before the Guild. I'll just never be comfortable with you having the kind of intimacy with an ex-lover, of all people."

I winced. "That's part of the reason we even courted in the first place. Soul-Shields tend to, when opposite genders."

"_Wonderful."_

My turn to let out an exasperated sigh. This was not an easy thing to explain. "Look, Vilkas is my _friend, _Bryn, not unlike Tonilia is yours. Do you not still run jobs with her, seek her council sometimes?"

"Lass, it's hardly the same thing…"

"It is," I cut in gently. "And besides, have I not spent the last five years trying to avoid the man? Was I not the one to break things off? And, most importantly…" I leveled him in my gaze. "…did I not choose you?"

I closed the gap between us, sealing the words with a kiss. I began to pull away after a moment, but Bryn wouldn't let me. He drew me closer to him, never breaking the connection. We stayed that way for a good long moment, long enough for our heartbeats to regulate together. His hand was absentmindedly drawing warm circles across my back, even as my arms locked around his neck.

When we finally did break apart, Brynjolf rested his forehead against mine. "Does that answer your question?" he asked, his voice little more than a rumble at close-range.

"What question?" I asked, slightly dazedly.

I felt him smile through the quick kiss he stole then, and then we were far enough apart that I could make distinctions between his facial features. "I love you, Bryn," I reminded him quietly. "Or have you forgotten?"

"_Never_." The word was accompanied by a brief, intense hug. "I'll never forget the night you told me that. I didn't sleep a wink 'til _dawn_, I was so damn excited."

"What?" I asked, half-laughing. "Excited at what?"

"Just the thought that you loved me, too." He shrugged in an attempt to be casual, but his face had flushed.

"Surely you'd figured it out before then?"

"You're not an easy woman to read, Ty. Elves never are. I never know _what _it is you're thinking. I can guess, but I'm just as like to be wrong as to be right."

"Well, Brynjolf," I said, nestling back against his collarbone, "good thing you've got the rest of your life to perfect the art, 'ey?"

"A wonderful thing," he agreed, and after a moment's searching, picked up the journal again.

"So what is it you draw in this?" I asked, gesturing to the leather-bound book. "Or rather, how do you decide?"

"They're just things that stick out in my memory. Things that, if I draw them right, almost become iconic."

"And how long have you been keeping it?"

"Since I was a lad, really." I could hear the smile in his voice as he flipped it open to some of the early pages. "These are kind of terrible, but that's my mum." He tapped one of the early drawings with one calloused finger. I could tell it was the Juri of Solitude from Mercer's memory, but this woman was clearly older, and not so hard-edged. She was standing on the front porch of a Falkreath-style home, as though calling out to her boys to come in for supper. Obviously, Brynjolf's drawing skills had improved tremendously since he was young, but this… this wasn't bad. Not at all.

"And that's my Da." He tapped another drawing, this one of the Ceylon of Falkreath from Mercer's memory. The man was almost as large as Farkas, by the looks of things. He was poised over a bellows, hammering out a sheet of metal. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and I could almost hear the forge rumbling.

Brynjolf tapped yet another drawing in the earlier pages. "And this is Raynor." A very young Raynor, at that. The boy's facial features were rougher than Brynjolf's, his hair cropped short. He seemed to be playing ball, poised to throw one. But I had no more background than that. Charcoal can be very expressive, but it doesn't give color.

"I saw your parents in Mercer's memory," I offered up in a quiet voice, "but not your brother. What was he like?"

Brynjolf let out a breath. "Raynor took after my Da more than I do, to hear Delvin tell it. Auburn hair, cropped military-short, more muscle than brains, and a strong aversion to authority. He looked after me, though, even before we lost our parents. I was never big like him, never as smooth a talker as him. He was always pulling Regan off me before I got seriously injured in the fight."

My brow furrowed. "_You _were the runt of the litter? Impossible."

He was smiling. "Very possible—it happened. But he, Regan, Aisling, and I were inseparable as children. Clansmen always are."

Something I'd always wanted to ask. "How on Nirn could you leave that? That family? It's easy to leave a broken one like mine, but yours?"

Bryn's smile turned sad. "I was twelve or thirteen when my parents died. The house caught fire, no one's still quite sure how. Raynor had actually fallen asleep alongside Regan at my Uncle Donal's—that's his and Aisling's Da—and wasn't even home the night it happened. I'm a chronic insomniac—I was awake enough to smell the smoke…" He trailed off, and I laced our fingers together as if to say, I'm here. "The official story about the whole affair is that the forge-embers were blown out by the summer winds, but there were strangers poking around the Clan in the days leading up to it. People no one seemed to know but my parents. I guess I may never know, but something tells me it was the Guild curse, catching up to them."

Another exhaled breath, and then he continued, "As much as we loved the Clan, as willing as our Aunt and Uncle were to take us in… Raynor and I couldn't stay in Falkreath. Just… couldn't. So we went to Riften, and found our parents' old friends, Delvin Mallory and Mercer Frey. Our godsfathers, actually." He flipped ahead in the journal, as if to distract himself. "There's the first time I met Mercer." He tapped at a drawing of the cantankerous ex-Guildmaster, whose hands were braced against the desk and whose gaze was leveled out at the viewer.

"Just as terrifying as he should be," I said with a sad little laugh. "And Bryn, I'm sorry. I never would've asked if…"

"Ty," he interrupted, squeezing my hand, "you should have known ages ago. Better to hear it from me than, say, Vex. Or Delvin. Or… hell, anybody, really."

I nodded, watching him flip through the pages, completely mesmerized by his talent. There was a younger Delvin Mallory in those pages, with a full head of hair, even, leaning back in a chair as though he had not a care in the world. There was a fully-grown Raynor, now looking like a man instead of a boy, and incredibly dashing in Guild Armor. I could see it ran in the family. There was a young Vex, snapping at a baby-faced Tonilia. There was Cynric Endell poised to make a kill-shot with his trusty bow, hood even then pulled low over his eyes.

For a while, Tonilia was featured rather prominently, and from the stories Brynjolf augmented the drawings with, I could tell this was the time in his life when they'd been courting. From what he told me, they hadn't courted for all that long, but they'd lost something rather important to each other. And although they'd broken it off in a rather rocky manner, they'd remained friends. Estranged ones, at first, but they eventually fell back into the rapport they'd begun with.

There were drawings of New Life Scar or Stories past, from successful (and unsuccessful) jobs he'd run, from life in Riften as he grew. He came upon the night that Raynor died after a while, and it was just as Vex had described—the twin moons in the sky, the still-burning body in the river, the charred rope just above the Ratway entrance. Brynjolf had gotten good enough by now to make this picture truly haunting.

Then, he told me, the drawings dropped off. He just couldn't think of anything to draw anymore. There were a few important events in here, like the duel between Ulfric Stormcloak and High King Torygg that he'd had the questionable fortune to witness, and the night he'd watched Alduin attack the Throat of the World from the roof of the Bee and Barb alongside Sapphire and Vipir. But the next major event in his life, at least, according to the journal, was the day he met me.

I blinked in surprise at myself, who was vaulting over the low wall in the Riften marketplace with sparks flying around her as she chased a Brotherhood assassin. "I knew right then you were trouble," he said with an affectionate jab at my shoulder.

"Ten minutes after you met me? You're slipping," I teased.

He continued flipping through the book at a leisurely pace. "You're rather distracting; give a man a break."

I snorted. "I find it hard to believe I'm so interesting you have _this _much to draw regarding me." I gestured towards his journal.

Bryn's smile was soft. "What can I say, lass? You're my favorite subject."

I felt myself flush red. "You know Brynjolf, you're a talented artist, but these aren't realistic."

"Oh?" He cocked a bemused eyebrow. "And what makes you say that?"

"She," I said, tapping a drawing of me from Tonilia's wedding (when I'd actually made an attempt to look nice for once), "is too pretty to be me."

"False," he replied, kissing my forehead. "I can't do you justice. Ty, I don't know _who _told you otherwise—and I'm guessing it was Neva—but you're beautiful. Okay? Okay. I'm tired of arguing this with you because we both know I'm right."

I had to laugh at that. "_Avalon _is beautiful. So was Neva, once upon a time."

"They're _Elves!" _He sounded faintly exasperated. "Elven women are all sharp planes and edges—look at Karliah, or the Priestess Dinya. You, mercifully, are not."

It took me a moment to process this. "Are you calling me fat?"

"No! Mother of Mercy, you never stop moving—how could you _possibly _have the time to? I meant this…" He traced my jawline with the plane of his finger. "…doesn't look like it was carved out of a _rock."_

I paused to ponder this. "Elves _are _rather angular, aren't we?"

He nodded, seemingly relieved. "I know you don't really appreciate being part Nord, but just so you know, _I _appreciate you being part Nord."

I had to laugh at that. "So long as one of us is enjoying it."

There were many other drawings after that, and it pretty much followed my time with the Guild. One of my favorites was from the first time we'd gone out as a courting couple, and I was sitting across the table from the viewer, a tankard in my hand and a smile on my face. I just looked so… _happy. _I couldn't stop staring; it was so odd to see me like that.

I realized, quietly, as we flipped through the pages of his life, that there was so much joy in my relationship with Brynjolf that had never existed between myself and Cyrano, or Vilkas. I hated the High Elf; that one took care of itself. Vilkas and I… we weren't _unhappy, _necessarily, but we certainly spent a good chunk of the time we spent together arguing. It got to be exhausting. If Bryn and I argued, it was usually a joke, or friendly banter back-and-forth. And there was no hate between us. Matter of fact, we had exactly the opposite.

I was falling asleep in his arms by the time we'd gone through the whole thing, all the way up to the drawing of Vilkas and myself and our spirits. I was only half aware of Bryn carrying me down the stairs, setting me on my feet once we reached the Jorrvaskr living quarters, only half aware of his guiding hand on the small of my back, leading me back to the Harbinger's quarters. Like the Master Thief that he was, he guided me around those sleeping on my floor without waking a single one of them up. Like the sweet-natured friend that he was, he didn't disappear until after Vaermina took me.


	75. The New Kodlak

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A few days later, I was out in the training yard at dawn, having fallen back into my training regimen like I still needed it. Generally speaking, as a Child of Azura, I love dawn and dusk. They're such beautiful endings to the major halves of our lives. Dawn breaks the night as Dusk breaks the day. Not to mention, if you were awake early enough, no one else was. Njada would occasionally appear in the doorframe and we'd exchange polite nods, but she'd disappear out into the countryside just as quickly. It was almost a pity that one would never become a werewolf—she'd have loved the Beast. But this morning, as dawn wrote across the sky with rosy pink fingers, I was interrupted by a different Shield-Sister.

I was holding a plank position on my forearms when I heard a diminutive voice call out, "Morwyn?"

I raised my head, and from my extremely low vantage point, I discovered a young Imperial making her way across the training yard. "Hail, Shield-Sister," I grunted in reply. Holding a plank is not as easy as it looks.

I was surprised when Ria dropped into the lotus position to better speak with me. "Could I talk to you, Shield-Sister?"

"Of course." Unable to hold the plank as such any longer, I switched to holding myself by both hands. I glanced up to Ria. "Do you mind?"

She waved me off. "Not at all."

I smiled wanly. "Wonderful." A mental ticker went off as I began. _One, two, three… _"So what's on your mind, my friend?"

She traced meaningless designs in the sand as she gathered her thoughts. "I hope you don't mind my asking, but how did you and Brynjolf start courting?"

Not the question I'd been expecting, but I figured Ria would get to whatever was obviously bothering her on her own time. "How? We were friends beforehand, I was in the Guild." I smirked at the next memory. "He accidentally-on-purpose kissed me after a job once. I got revenge after a different one." It was difficult to shrug while doing push-ups, but I managed. "Things just fell into place, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

Ria flushed a brilliant crimson. "I, uh, meant _literally_, how did you start?"

"Ah." _Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen… _"Bryn offered to buy me a pint after I got back from a job—before I left."

"So he started it?" Ria clarified.

"Aye." I pulled myself up into the lotus position across from my Shield-Sister. "Why do you ask?"

Ria sighed. "So there's this guy…"

"That's how _all _the best stories start," I laughed. "Who is he, what's he do?"

She smiled. "Hadvar of Riverwood, he's in the Imperial Legion. But he's here helping you, Morwyn. Says he'll serve the younger Stormcloak so long as she's making sense."

I winced. "I don't like having Legionnaires in my employ, but I suppose I haven't got much choice, given the circumstances."

Ria's brow furrowed. "Don't you always say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend?"

Cornered. Damn. "True enough, I suppose. But what does my courting Bryn have to do with this, Shield-Sister?"

Ria flushed again. "We've just been dancing around each other long enough—augh, it's so frustrating! Either court me or don't; it's that simple. And, well, knowing you, I was wondering if _you'd_ taken the initiative or Brynjolf had. And therefore if I could."

I snorted. "Knowing me? What's _that _supposed to mean?"

Ria's eyes widened; she still hadn't learned to tell when I was joking. "I just meant you're an elf, and you think differently, and act differently, and so it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility for you to…"

"Ria, calm down," I interrupted. "I was kidding, I knew what you meant."

"Oh." She blushed sheepishly. "Sorry Morwyn, I can't ever tell when you're serious."

"A good rule of thumb is: are we in a fight? No? Then I'm not."

The perpetually wide-eyed Imperial actually laughed at that. "That is… actually very true." Then she sighed. "Are all men so aggravating?"

"Just about." I snorted at her discomfort, and added, as gently as I can, "You'll find, Ria, when men get involved, things get unnecessarily complicated." I snorted at myself—so much for the understanding older sister act. "You'll also find they say the same thing about us. You just need to find something to give him a little push, is all."

"That's not very helpful…"

I actually laughed at that. "I give terrible advice; let's be realistic here. I'm a hit first, ask questions later sort of lass." Lass? Gods, I'd been hanging around Brynjolf too long. "But I learned a thing or two from my sisters." I smiled belatedly in a slightly vain attempt at reassuring the poor girl. "You could always see if his friends can spark a catalyst. I can talk to someone, if you need. I'm not inconspicuous, though. You may want to ask Njada to…"

"No!" Ria cut in immediately. "Morwyn, there's a reason I'm talking to _you _about this!"

I cocked an eyebrow. "I figured that was because you have three unhelpful Shield-Sisters. Pick your poison, really."

Ria shot me a look. "Aela is too distant to really talk to. I don't know how Farkas stands it. And I might as well ask Njada how _her_ sister is doing—it'd be better than trying to have _this _conversation with her."

Both accurate points. "Fair enough."

"And you don't give _terrible _advice," Ria countered, "it's just not as good as Kodlak's."

"Also accurate. Kodlak was a wise old man." We were silent for a moment. "Look, Ria, all I can really tell you is that if you've given him all the ammunition he needs, and the boy is too scared to release the arrow, then he'd get eaten alive by a Companion, anyway."

Ria broke out into a real grin at that. "True enough, Shield-Sister." She bowed her head, Dunmeri-style. Being a foreigner in the land of the Nords made her respect my and Athis' culture more, as we did hers. "Thank you."

I bowed back. "You're welcome, Shield-Sister. If I was any help at all."

"I think you need to start giving yourself more credit," she replied, rising to her feet. "You're not so bad as you think you are."

"Eh." I shrugged as I joined her. "Keeps me from getting overconfident. Care to spar?"

Ria drew her sword. "Always."

After a few sparring matches, we joined our Shield-Siblings (and my Guildsiblings) for breakfast. The Nord in me loved seeing Jorrvaskr full of people, most of which I called family, in some way, shape, or form. The Dunmer wanted to run away from the crowd. Out of habit, I claimed a spot by the Twins, who were knee-deep in a discussion about the Blood.

"We shouldn't keep tempting fate like this," Vilkas was saying. He nodded to me in greeting without breaking his train of thought. "If one of us were to die in the war…"

"We can't get rid of it _now," _Farkas countered sagely, "much as we'd like to. If the battle goes south, the wolves could mean the difference."

"Besides," I put in, "we don't really have time to travel past Winterhold and cure ourselves. We could get there quick enough, but getting back…"

Farkas gestured to me without breaking eye contact with his brother. "And there's that! Plus, Morwyn's got a Brotherhood contract on her head. Getting rid of her heightened senses would just be stupid."

"Alright, alright!" Vilkas conceded, holding up both hands, palms out. "We keep it for now. But as _soon _as Stormcloak's dead, we go."

"Aye," I agreed, even as Farkas said, "Aye!"

"And then I need to get back to Riften," I grinned, "'cause I'm getting married."

"Ah, that's right!" Farkas laughed, elbowing me in the ribs. "You're about to join the club! Next, Vilkas…" He shot his brother a look. Vilkas just rolled his eyes.

"Have you courted anyone recently, Shield-Brother?" I asked the younger twin carefully.

He shrugged. "Not really."

"He courted Ysolda for a while, not too long ago," Farkas offered up. "It just broke real quick."

"You're a Companion, my friend," I reminded Vilkas. "You're not going to be happy with anything less than a warrior."

"I discovered that," Vilkas admitted with a laugh. "And, in my defense, courting _you _confused the shit out of the born-and-bred Nord in me." He adopted the sort of voice one uses to mimic thought. "_Why _do I find an Elf attractive? She's _blue!"_

I couldn't help but laugh at that. "Yeah, you kind of set yourself up for that one," Farkas admitted, laughing as well.

Whatever Vilkas was going to say next was lost when I heard my name called from across the way: "Tiberia!"

I turned to find Rune standing there. "Hey Rune," I greeted, rising from my seat to speak with him eye to eye (or as close as I ever get). "What do you need?"

He rocked back and forth on his heels a moment, clearly mulling something over. "I know this doesn't really have anything to do with anything, but y'know there's a war on the horizon and…"

"And everything becomes important," Farkas finished for him.

"Exactly." Rune nodded gratefully towards the older Twin. "So, Tiberia, given how well-traveled you are, I feel like you may know something about this." He reached into one of his many pockets and retrieved from it a small rock, emblazoned with dozens of black lines—runemarks. "This is the rock my… well, the man I call my father found me with when I washed up on the coast of Solitude." He held it out. "I've spent most the coin I ever made with the Guild on finding out what it means. Even took the damn thing to the College of Winterhold. No one seems to know."

I took it carefully from him, turning it over to examine the marks. "And what makes you think I'd know?"

Rune snorted. "Oh, I don't know, _Dragonborn_…"

I clocked him upside the head without looking up, amid general laughter. "I need more light." I glanced around, looking for a candle.

"On it," said Delvin, who cast the spell of magelight over my head.

I smiled at him in thanks and took a closer look at this rock of Rune's. It was an unassuming grey color, and rather large, but also rather flat, and fit neatly into the palm of my hand. The runes began near the top of the stone, and went all the way around it in a spiraling, downward pattern. There was only one language I knew that wrote like that. "This is in Ancient Daedric," I said slowly, brow furrowed. "You can tell because of how the runes are written. Look." I traced the words with a finger, spiraling down the rock.

"Don't you speak Daedric?" Rune asked, not daring to hope.

"_Modern_ Daedric, aye." I continued to scrutinize the rock. I could pick out letters and phrases here and there, but the language was too devolved from that which I was accustomed to read properly. "I'm sorry, Rune, but I would need books from the College to read this properly…" Something went off in my head. "Vilkas!" The Nord snapped to attention next to me. "Do you still have that book I gave you for New Life that one year?"

Vilkas glanced skyward as he thought back, then his gaze snapped back into place. "Yes." He disappeared into the living quarters a moment later.

"You can _read _Daedric?" Karliah asked from her vantage point from across the room.

My brow furrowed. "Aye, since I was small. Can't you?"

"Not when it isn't religious," my cousin admitted. "Most Houses only can speak enough to get through the rituals, you know."

"Not the Morwyns," Ondolemar offered up with a snort. "They can read, speak, and write the entire language—not just the ceremonies."

I smirked. "We're overachievers like that."

Brynjolf cracked up at that. "You don't say, Dovahkiin?" He gestured about the room, from the Guild to the Companions to the Mages.

Vilkas returned with a rather weighty tome just as I was clearing off a section of the main table to give myself a place to work. "This one?"

I glanced at it—_A Brief History of Daedra and Man_—and said, "Aye that's the one." Vilkas thumped it down on the table in reply.

"Some New Life present," Rune quipped.

I shot him a look. "I was tired of answering questions about the Daedra and he was out of books to read."

"It _was _fairly helpful," Vilkas admitted, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the table. "And you ought to be thankful she did, Rune."

I cracked open the tome as Rune returned fire, and flipped forward to the pages on Ancient Daedric. After procuring a quill and paper, I carefully transcribed the runes from the rock onto the paper in the more traditional left-to-right style. Rune was watching with a mixture of hope and fascination, while some of my colleagues from the College had gathered around to see what all the hubbub was.

"Why did _none_ of you recognize Ancient Daedric?" I harassed them good-naturedly.

Colette harrumphed. "It looks like the modern one!"

"And we would try to translate in the modern version," Faralda continued smoothly, "but nothing would add up. It was garbled and unintelligible."

"You're all idiots," I said flatly. Only Tolfdir realized I was kidding.

Farkas shooed the onlookers away as I began translating the Ancient Daedric into Modern. It was slow going, given that I only understood one of the languages, and I made tons of mistakes because of misplaced marks and the fact that the ancient version apparently didn't like transcribing vowels. But I eventually had a more-or-less intelligible translation into Modern Daedric.

And what it said worried me. It worried me deeply. There was no way I could tell Rune what was on the rock—it would ruin him! His reputation, his sense of self, his trust in his ancestors… all of it. No, there was no way in the twenty realms of Oblivion that I would tell him. So quickly, I made something up.

I sat back on the bench as though defeated. "Uh, Rune?" The Imperial snapped to attention, padding over to where I was. He'd been chatting with Ria and Claudius as I worked. "I have it translated." I tapped the finished product. "Care to hear?"

He sighed in mock distress. "Oh, I suppose. Since you went through the trouble, and all."

I snorted, picked up the paper and, as though reading it, recited:

"May the road rise to meet you,

The wind be always at your back,

The sun shine warm upon your face,

The rain fall soft upon your fields,

And until we meet again,

May the gods hold you in the palms of their hands."

"A common Daedric blessing," Karliah offered.

"Clan one, too," Regan interjected. "Interestingly enough."

"And then here," I continued, tapping the bottom of the paper and using the truth, "whomever wrote this—and I would assume it was your parents—wish you long life and happiness… Aurilius."

"So that's my real name," Rune said, rocking back on his heels. "How fitting, to be a thief and named gold…" Everyone cracked up at that.

I stood then, offering the rock to him again. "So that's one mystery solved, eh?"

After ensuring the rock was safely tucked away in his pockets again, Rune enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug. "Thank you, Tiberia. _Truly. _You don't know what this means to me."

I hugged him back, feeling queasy. "You're most welcome, my friend."

He released me, thanked me again, and retreated off somewhere. I had hoped that would be the end of it, but Brynjolf came over, his face set into a hard-lined mask. "Tiberia, a word?"

_He knows._ I willed my face to remain passive."Sure, Bryn. Outside?"

"Aye." We disappeared out into the training yard.

We reached the wall and he turned to face me, arms folded across his chest, face a heavy mask. "You lied."

My own mask cracked. "Sweet Meridia, through my _teeth."_

"Why wouldn't you just tell him you couldn't read it!?" Brynjolf was trying very hard not to shout. "You _know _what that damn thing means to him! There was no need to…"

"Brynjolf, I could read it, thank you very much," I interrupted hotly. "But…" I glanced up at him in a way that clearly pleaded for help. "…there was no way I could tell him. It would ruin him."

His brow furrowed, his anger dissipating. "What do you mean?"

I glanced about. "That wasn't the blessing on the rock—the actual one was from the Mythic Dawn. 'The Dawn is breaking; go forth and greet it' or some such other bullshit."

"The Mythic Dawn…?" Brynjolf's brow furrowed even deeper. He was going to get worry lines before his third decade. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"They're the ones who murdered Uriel Septim VII and started the Oblivion Crisis," I offered up. "They're the ones that opened the Gates to Oblivion at Kvatch. _They're the ones that let Mehrunes Dagon into Tamriel." _I was physically shaking, not from the cold, but from that thought.

"Aren't you Dagon's Champion?" Brynjolf tapped the dagger in his boot for emphasis. "Loaned me the Razor?"

I sighed. "It's complicated, Bryn."

"What _isn't, _in your life?"

That one actually made me pause. "You?"

He chuckled, then turned serious. "But really, Tiberia…"

I sighed. "Pre-Sovngarde, I received an invitation from a Silas Vesuius in Dawnstar. He was opening a museum to the Mythic Dawn, and since the Dragonborn was a well-known Daedra Worshipper, he wished to speak with me. So I went, and he tasked me with recovering Mehrunes Razor.

"Now, under normal circumstances I would have told him no, there was no way in Oblivion I was going to recover that bloody artifact. Literally, the thing is bloodstained, known as the Dagger of Final Wounds and the Kingslayer. But he already had the scabbard, and it was too late…" I was shaking again.

Bryn put his hands on my shoulders to steady me. "Too late for what, Ty?"

"Everything! _Anything!_ If I didn't go get the parts, someone else would. And he said he'd just put the thing in a display case, but he didn't know what he was _dealing _with! You put that thing under lock and key, it'll be out within the week, tops. If not because it called to _you, _then because it called to some thief! I had to do it. I had to…" I was still shaking despite Brynjolf's best efforts.

"And then Silus and I go to the shrine, to put the thing back together, and being Mehrunes Dagon, he orders me to kill Silus if I wanted the blade. But Silus attacked _me _before I could even…" I shuddered, and shook my head. "And let's face it; the man had no prayer of killing the Dragonborn. _That _is why I have the Razor. _That _is why Mehrunes Dagon named me his champion. I'd rather have nothing to do with the Prince, but I also don't want to offend him. Especially since he watches over you now.

"But Mehrunes Dagon is a cruel god, the Mythic Dawn, his fanatic cult. If Rune were to know his ancestors nearly brought about the destruction of Tamriel, and _did _bring doom on the Septim dynasty… it would tear him apart." I drew in a steadying breath, trying to stop shaking. "You tell him, if you want. Tell him I made something up so that he wouldn't be embarrassed in front of so many people, and was going to tell him the truth later. But I will _not _bring him to ruin. I will _not._"

Brynjolf had his hand at his temples, now. "We can't tell him."

I nodded. "Some pieces of the past are best left buried."


	76. Snowblind

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Later that very same week came one of the scariest moments of my life.

The thieves were getting restless without jobs to pull, people to frame, and things to steal. Whiterun was preparing for war; they weren't about to cripple its supplies like that. And there were simply too many people in Dragonsreach to nick stuff from the Jarl, either. Not to mention, pickpocketing lost its fun when you were left to the same five or six people every day. As a result of this, many of my Guildsiblings turned to the time-honored Companions tradition of drinking oneself into Oblivion at the Bannered Mare. Delvin, in particular, managed to drink _both _of the Twins under the table one night. The _werewolf _Twins. I watched the whole debacle in disbelief.

It was Turdas afternoon and the skies were darkening. The warm breezes of Hearthfire had been giving way to the cold, driving winds of Frostfall as of late. Winter in Skyrim always comes early, after all. Frostfall snow doesn't usually stick, but it _is _annoying. Especially since it wouldn't slow down Ulfric one bit—the man's army came from _Eastmarch_. Personally, I was amazed he still _had _one. All those full-blooded Nords wouldn't take too kindly to their General working openly and closely with the Thalmor… right?

The city had packed itself away by dinnertime, when the snow had begun to fall in earnest. As the Guilds sat down to dinner in the mead hall, I began my usual head count. I always count in the order that I met these people—Companions, Mages, Thieves. But tonight my headcount was different. All the Companions were here, Isembard down from the forge and Vignar in for the night. Every Mage was here that had come down from the College, as they tended to sleep at the Grey-Manes' and spend their days where the action was. But the Thieves count was off. I was sure of it. And after a moment, I knew who was missing.

"Anyone seen Thrynn?" I hollered over the buzzing of conversation.

Everyone shook their heads no. "Not since this morning," Sapphire called. "He said he had some business with the Khajiit Caravans."

My brow furrowed. "They left yesterday…"

"You can still catch them sometimes if you hurry," Claudius offered up. "Curious as to what was so important."

"And why he isn't back by now," Phinis commented dryly. "The snow's coming down hard, but it wasn't this afternoon."

I glanced out the windows, and knew Phinis was right. I made one of my infamous snap decisions, right then. "I'm going after him."

"That has bad idea written all over it," Vilkas said at once. Most everyone agreed.

"Well I'm not leaving him out there," I snapped back, gesturing outside. "He'll freeze to death, if not wander snowblind." Snowblindness, where you couldn't tell the sky from the ground from the world around you, was absolutely terrifying. I'd only experienced it truly once or twice, and I had no desire to repeat it. Or for anyone else to. "No, I'm finding him."

"I can track in the snow," Aela said at once. "I'm going with you, Harbinger."

"Not dressed like that, you're not," Farkas interjected from across the way.

Aela shot him a look. "I'll be in _fur, _Farkas." Ah, the _wolf _could track in the snow.

I nodded to her. "I'll meet you in the Underforge in a few minutes."

"If you're going in the snow," Karliah called to me as I made my way downstairs, "wear the Nightingale Armor. It is better for trapping body heat."

I heard a thoughtful "It _is, _isn't it?" from Brynjolf just before the door to the living quarters slammed shut.

I practically ran to my quarters and, once the door was firmly shut, dressed in my warmest underthings (the fur-lined ones), and over those went the black, Oblivion-forged armor. Funny, wearing fur under light armor always made me feel bulky, but even now, I felt lithe and slippery as a shadow. Powerful magic, Nocturnal had. My fingertips were exposed thanks to these bracers, but there was nothing to be done about it. I would just have to hope I didn't get frostbite—or that Colette was in a decent enough mood to heal it. I left the hood down for the moment.

I tore back upstairs and called my Seconds to me. Tolfdir, Brynjolf, Vilkas—what a _strange_ combination of men. "We don't call Aela 'the Huntress' for nothing," I reminded the Mage and the Thief as soon as they were within earshot. "If she can't find him, then he doesn't want to be found."

"I still don't like this, Shield-Sister," Vilkas said.

Brynjolf snorted. "Good luck convincing her otherwise."

"You remember the spell for detect life?" Tolfdir asked, bypassing typical concern for the moment. "Do you need any scrolls for it?"

I nodded. "Thank you, but I have a spell and a Shout for it. I should be fine. But if we're not back in a few hours and you haven't heard from us… worry."

"If you're not back in a few hours and we haven't heard from you," Vilkas said warningly, "Farkas and I are coming after you."

"Right." I snorted. "Now, you're going to be hearing booms from the Thu'um all night—don't panic. The one you'll be hearing most often is the Aura Whisper, _laas yah nir. _If you hear anything else, it's a fight."

"And if we hear nothing at all?" Tolfdir asked mildly.

"Worry," said Brynjolf and Vilkas together.

I clapped them both on the shoulders. "You guys know me so well."

"That's what worries me," Brynjolf muttered after me as I detached from the group and called for Sapphire.

She immediately appeared by my side. "Have you got anything of Thrynn's you could lend us?" I asked in a low voice.

Sapphire's brow furrowed. "Why would you need something of his?"

"Werewolves," I reminded, my eyebrow quirking up.

"Oh." Sapphire's face flushed. "Hold on." She disappeared downstairs, only to return a few minutes later. "Will this work, Guildmaster?" She held out one of Thrynn's tunics.

I was not even going to question how she had this. "Should be fine." I clapped her shoulder in solidarity, just before another question socked me between the eyes. "Sapphire, was there anything strange going on with him lately?"

She paused. "He's been acting strange since the Battle for Riften, but I could never put a finger on it."

I nodded and departed. I was nearly out the door, too, when Claudius stopped me. "Take this, Tiberia," he said, holding out his thick grey travelling cloak to me. "Skyrim winds cut to the bone."

Claudius, an Imperial, wasn't known for his tolerance of the cold. "Thank you, Shield-Brother," I said, slinging the cloak across my shoulders, even over the cape on the Nightingale Armor.

He clapped me on the shoulder. "Just come back safely now. You hear me?"

I nodded to him before pulling up the mask of the armor and yanked the hood down over my head. "I hear you."

I was in the Underforge, a craggy cave under the Skyforge that we used to perform werewolf rituals in, a few moments later. As promised, Aela was already here. "What's the plan, Ty?"

I tossed Thrynn's shirt to her. "There's his scent. Let's find him quick and bring him home—it's _cold _out here! I'm using detect life magic."

Aela rather delicately sniffed the tunic. "Shouts?"

"Some," I acknowledged as she set down the tunic and removed her own armor.

"Right, then. I'll try not to panic the first time." And with that, Aela began to change into her beast form. I struck up a torch against my thigh to give her some privacy.

She and I burst out of the Underforge by means of the outside entrance and found ourselves on the plains surrounding Whiterun. Without walls to break the wind, it was absolutely searing. Ice and snow bit into any exposed skin (of which, I thankfully had precious little) with the fury of a _dovah_. I was immediately grateful to Claudius for loaning me his heavy cloak. (I was also feeling pretty grateful to the facemask on the Nightingale Armor right about then.) Aela's Beast sniffed the air and jerked her head in a certain direction. I Shouted— "_LAAS YAH NIR!"—_before falling into step behind her.

Even holding the torch aloft, I couldn't see much more than five feet in any direction with the snow falling so quickly and heavily. But we were the only living things out on the plains now, in the dark. Not even the usual nighttime predators were prowling tonight—no wolves, sabre cats, or the like. And honestly, that worried me more than Thrynn going absent without leave. Something just wasn't right about this night.

I'm still not sure how long we wandered. I had no way to track the time without the moons, and once I lost feeling in my fingers, that was pretty much the end of it. I suppose I could have kept an eye on the torch if I truly cared, but I had bigger things to worry about. It was just putting one foot in front of the other, Shouting intermittently, and using magicka mostly just to warm up my fingers. Aela led me along the road to Riverwood, I later realized, and then off and into the trees.

"_LAAS YAH NIR!" _I barked, and for once, I was rewarded with a red, pulsating form just ahead.

I ran to meet it, and Aela crouched a tad lower, making it seem like she was my rather large hunting dog (not the first time we'd had to use that excuse. "She's an elfish hunting dog—aren't they this big in Skyrim?"). "Hello?" I called, holding the torch higher.

A groan came from just ahead, and I nearly tripped over the person lying against a fallen tree, curled in a tight ball. I immediately recognized the armor, and dropped into a crouch to nudge him. Aela curled around us to block some of the wind. "Thrynn… Thrynn…! Get up, Guildbrother."

He uncurled far enough to get a decent look at whoever was shaking him. "Spirit, leave me!" he croaked. "Let me die in peace…"

"I'm not a spirit." His eyes were bloodshot, and he was shaking uncontrollably—too much to be from the cold (Guild Armor wasn't _that _permeable). And my heart sank when I realized what caused this. "Thrynn, you're on Skooma, aren't you?"

He blinked a few times. "Guildmaster?"

I nodded. "Aye. It's me, friend."

He curled back into a ball. "Let me _die, _Guildmaster. Please, I beg you! I can't bear it any longer… I can see them in my dreams, hear them calling for the Divines…"

"Who, Thrynn?"

"The women, the children," he whispered, "the ones Garthek ordered killed. But the clan said no, I said no. Brother killed brother that day because of it… I left his head on a pike!"

"Whose head?" He wasn't making sense.

"Garthek's, the bastard!"

"Thrynn, you need _out _of the snow." I tugged at his arm, trying to get him to stand. "It's a long way to Whiterun."

He lashed out at me, striking me across the face with an open palm strike. "I can't… I can't…" Tears were streaming down his face, freezing in their tracks. "She deserves so much more than me."

Sapphire, then. His past and his present couldn't be reconciled in his head. I knew the feeling. "Thrynn, she's worried sick about you. Everyone in Jorrvaskr is."

"I won't go back! Tell them I died of frostbite on the road. I was supposed to, anyway."

No more nice Ty, then. I kicked at his ribs. "Get _up, _man! Wallow in self-pity later." I yanked him out of the fetal position, and slid his arm across my shoulders. I stood after a bit of maneuvering, supporting both his weight and my own. "You will not die here."

"Why _not?" _he demanded. "Why will you not just leave me _be?!"_

"Because," I said evenly as I began the trek back to Whiterun, torch held high, "you're family."

It was even slower going back across the plains. Thrynn was slung over my shoulders not unlike the way I had been over Mercer's, all those months ago. The wind bit into us both with tiny, daggerlike teeth, and Aela was having trouble holding onto the Beast. If she changed out here, though, we were all doomed. I think this knowledge kept her in control, but what do I know of Aela the Huntress' inner mental workings? Not much, I can assure you. Nor do I wish to know.

I trudged on through the snow regardless, uncaring of the cold, the ache rising between my shoulder blades, or Thrynn's dead weight. He didn't hinder my progress, but he sure didn't help, either. And why Skooma? He'd clearly tried to overdose. But there are easier ways to kill oneself, if that's your aim. No, Thrynn wanted to forget something. The question was—what?

It was nothing short of a miracle when Aela fetched us up to the wall surrounding Whiterun. We followed it around for a few minutes until we reached the opening to the Underforge. Aela hopped up the boxes first, disappearing into the bowels of the earth. She reappeared a few moments later in her human form, and completely dressed once more. "Bring him here, Harbinger!" she called down to me.

Between the two of us, we managed to get Thrynn into the Underforge, and securely slammed the door shut behind us. Only now, in the comfort of the cave, did I yank off my hood and pull down the facemask. I set Thrynn down against the craggy wall, and only then realized how badly he was shivering. He seemed so very far away.

"He's strung out on Skooma," I informed my pack sister quietly.

She bowed her head in sorrow. "I suspected as much. I'll run and get a cure poison potion for him."

"Don't tell anyone about it!" I burst out hurriedly. "Just say we're all back, and he's in the Underforge for now… and don't let the Twins in here, either!"

Aela nodded—"Aye, Morwyn."—and disappeared out into the night again.

Only once she was gone did I drop into a crouch just before Thrynn's shaking form. "Guildbrother, Guildbrother…" I unlatched Claudius' cloak from around my shoulders and settled it around Thrynn's. "What were you thinking?"

"I wanted t-t-to _stop _thinking," he bit out through chattering teeth.

We needed a proper fire to warm him up, but a magical one would have to do for now. I held the flames in one hand, just bright enough to warm, but not enough to harm. "Why?" I pressed quietly. He just buried his face in his forearms.

Aela returned a few minutes later, bringing with her several alchemical potions and three steaming mugs of hot coffee. She set one down near the blood basin, handed the other one to me, and then crouched before Thrynn at my side. "Drink up, kinsman," she said, holding a bright red potion out to him.

He growled in response. "I'm not drinking a cure poison."

"Like hell you are!" I shouted. "Azura help me, Thrynn, I will shove it down your throat!"

Glaring at me all the while, he took the bottle from Aela's hands and downed it in one go. He slammed the bottle down, not unlike one would a tankard, upon completion, and it shattered into a million infinitesimal pieces on the craggy stone floor. My armor protected my shins, but Aela wasn't so lucky. She grumbled something under her breath, shoved the remaining mug into Thrynn's hands, then disappeared outside again, muttering something about firewood.

"Happy now, Guildmaster?" Thrynn barked.

I folded my arms across my sternum, feeling oddly like Mercer Frey. "What were you thinking?"

"I _told _you, I wasn't! I was trying _not _to."

"Why? This isn't like you." I was grasping at straws here, trying to come up with answers. "And who's Garthek?"

Thrynn sighed, seeming much older and careworn than his actual years, which couldn't have been much more than mine. "I was… I was part of a bandit clan once." He offered up the information like a Sundas confession. "I don't regret the time I spent with the clan—some of the best years of my life came from it—I regret how it ended."

I could sense a story coming on. "You were delirious out there in the snow… something about your dreams?"

Thrynn winced again, and in the dim lighting of the Underforge, his snow-smeared warpaint looked like blood. "Garthek was in charge of the clan—big man, nasty temper. And we followed him readily enough, for a time. He led the clan to prosperity, good food, good mead. You know—the Nord way." At my nod, he continued. "But he had a mean streak a mile wide. There were rumors of a mutiny stirring in the days leading up to the final attack."

At this point, Aela came back, unceremoniously dumping a pile of logs onto the floor and twisting some kindling into it. "Care to do the honors, Morwyn?"

I shot a quick spell of flames at it, and the whole thing went up in moments. We scrambled to cluster around the fire, I filled Aela in on what she'd missed, and we brooded over mugs of coffee for a good long moment. Then Thrynn spoke again.

"We had raided some little village on the Reach/Falkreath border. Most of the men died in the fighting, and Garthek ordered us to gather up the women and the children. This was pretty standard; no one thought twice about it. But then, when we did, he ordered us to kill them all…"

That earned a sharp intake of breath from both Aela and myself. And I was shot back to the aftermath of the Battle for Riften, where the _dovah _had paralyzed my rational mind. Even with Dovahsos, I had no excuse—not really—but without it? It was intolerable.

"I refused." Thrynn's voice was gaining power, now. "And some of the friends I'd made within the clan sided with me. They refused to kill innocents—survivors, even—like common butchers. And so our clan tore itself to pieces because Garthek refused to back off on his suicidal orders. Brother fought brother that day, and many of us died. We survivors went our separate ways… and I left Garthek's head on a pike on the outskirts of the village we'd burned to the ground."

I clapped him on the shoulder. "Good for you, my friend."

Thrynn's fingers were clamped around his mug, eyes staring unblinkingly into the fire. "I can still see their faces in my dreams, Tiberia. Do you, Dragonborn?"

I blinked in surprise. "Those I've killed?" Thrynn nodded, and when I answered, my voice had been knocked down a few decibel levels. "Aye, sometimes. They haunt me like my ancestors."

"I don't even know how many it is," Thrynn confessed, ashamed.

"I don't know how many I've killed, either," I offered up quietly, just now realizing that.

"Neither do I," Aela murmured.

Thrynn hung his head. "You two are warriors; you're _supposed _to fight and die for those who can't defend themselves. I was a _bandit… _there's no honor in that."

"What are bandits but misguided warriors?" I hypothesized gently.

Aela nodded. "I couldn't tell you how many Companions used to be bandits. Some make it all the way to Harbinger, regardless."

Thrynn smiled ruefully. "Even so, I couldn't stomach any more killing after that day. That's why I joined the Thieves Guild."

"Makes sense, I suppose," Aela grudgingly admitted. "Thieves tend to like keeping their marks alive."

His laugh was hollow and mostly bluster, but it was there. "Yeah, only I discovered shortly afterwards that I'm a rotten sneak."

I smiled weakly in return. "Hey now, so am I. Too loud, to hear Delvin tell it."

"You're a dragon," Thrynn reminded me. "What else would you be?"

I snorted, and then our little group grew serious again. "Sapphire's worried sick about you, you know," Aela told him. "She's still sitting up in the main hall with the Twins, Brynjolf, Regan, and Tolfdir."

He hung his head once more. "I don't know if I can face her after this… You know how she feels about bandits."

"It's no secret what you used to do, Thrynn," I reminded him. "She's always known."

"It isn't that," he admitted, "I know she knows. It's just… my hands are bloodstained. She's got no business being with me."

"If she's in the Thieves Guild," Aela pointed out, "she's probably a little bloodied herself."

"Besides," I piped up, "you make her happy. Her face lights up like a New Life candle tree every time she sees you."

"Kind of like Brynjolf when Ty walks in the room," Aela inputted.

I shot her a withering look as I added, "Haven't you realized?"

"I guess not," Thrynn admitted, staring unblinkingly into the fire. He wasn't shaking so much anymore, and his eyes weren't so bloodshot. The potion was working, thank the Divines.

We sat around the little fire in silence until it died out, leaving us once more in the semidarkness of the Underforge. Without communicating, we three stood as one. Thrynn awkwardly shuffled from foot to foot, digging the toe of his boot into the ground. "Thank you, Tiberia, Aela," he finally said. "I… I didn't expect anyone to."

Aela nodded in assent as I just said, "What we do, we do for the Guild."

Thrynn broke out into a weary smile as Aela led us out of the cavern. Fresh contact with the icy winter wind was absolute misery after being out of it for so long, and I tugged at my taloned bracer to make sure it covered any exposed skin…

_And suddenly, I was standing just outside Riften on a cold, clear winter's night. I… no, this wasn't me. (Godsdammit! Was I in Mercer Frey's head again? Yes, I think I was.) Mercer tugged at his bracer, doing the same thing I had been. He glanced over at his travelling companion, a lithe, slim Dark Elf woman who was smirking at him. "Are you ready, Old Man?" She called, openly challenging him._

_ Mercer snorted. "Born ready, Indigo." _

I was pulled sharply back to Nirn momentarily, and Aela and Thrynn were both giving me the same look. "You alright?" Aela prodded, eyes questioning.

I waved her off. "I'll be fine. Daedric magic, don't worry about it."

It was like mentioning the monthly cycle around men, they backed off so quickly. I pushed open the door to Jorrvaskr, and we were instantly beset by warmth. (I'm also fairly certain I felt my face thaw, but it's always been this color so I guess I'll never know...) Sapphire immediately enveloped Thrynn in a bone-crushing hug. "What were you _thinking!?" _She half-shouted into his shoulder. "I could have _lost _you!"

Thrynn returned her embrace, flushing slightly. "I'm sorry, Sapphire. I didn't mean to get lost. But I'm fine; not going anywhere. I promise." He shot a wayward glance my way, and I nodded.

Farkas found Aela as Brynjolf found me. "It's good to see you safe, lass." I actually felt my boots leave the floor.

I returned his embrace anyway. "You know I'm too stubborn to die."

"Ain't that the truth," Vilkas muttered from across the way.

Bryn set me down again with a good-natured smirk. "Yeah, but then you go and do things like this and make me worry about you, anyway."

Regan was standing over by the fire pit, observing his cousin and future cousin-in-law with a practiced eye. "You know, Tiberia," the Clansman said conversationally, tapping his chin in thought, "I think I'm beginning to see what Brynjolf sees in you."


	77. Let the Games Begin

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**Onward!**

**-)**

The snow didn't stick, which apparently I was the only one that didn't mourn. (I abhor the cold—have I mentioned that?) Meanwhile, the Stormcloaks were drawing nearer and nearer to Whiterun every day. Aela, Farkas, Vilkas, and I could sense their scents on the winds—metal, sweat, fear, excitement. For me, Ulfric's boys couldn't come fast enough. I was tired of cooling my heels in Jorrvaskr—I wanted to _fight_, dammit! And as if that weren't enough to put me on edge, there _was _the whole incident of me being slammed into Mercer's memory again. Bryn and Karliah had no more answers for it than I did.

_ Alright, Sheogorath, _I asked him more than once, _what do you want? _The Daedric Prince was unforthcoming.

It was mid-afternoon when disaster struck. I had been out at the forge with Adrianne Avenicci, going over the order for my (and how weird it was to think of it as 'my') army and her progress with it. She was coming along nicely, and so I paid her another third of the full amount, as promised. All in all, it had been an easy enough transaction thus far. As I was making my way back through the marketplace towards Jorrvaskr, Brynjolf materialized at my side, just out of habit. I was fairly certain he'd been "fishing" for most of the morning, but I could hardly blame him. He was as keyed up as the rest of the Thieves Guild.

We chatted about everything and nothing as we made our way up the steps to the Gildergreen Plaza, only to be interrupted by a small, high-pitched voice: "Dragonborn! _Dragonborn!"_

I turned and looked about my feet, only to discover one of the children in town tugging at the hem of my jerkin—Mila Valentia, by the looks of her. "Dragonborn, will you play tag with us?"

She and her friends were always asking their legend to join in the fun with them. I felt bad turning them down, but I'm not exactly what anyone would call the mothering type. I'm also a pretty shitty sister, all things considered. "Mila, I…" I began, as gently as I could.

But I never finished; Brynjolf interrupted: "Sure. You're it!" He tapped her between the eyes and took off running across the plaza.

Mila laughed and tagged my leg, taking off in another direction even as the other children scattered and spread throughout the plaza. "Oh come on!" I shouted, glaring at Brynjolf.

He winked at me conspiratorially from across the way. "Come on, _Dragonborn_. Surely even you had fun as a kid?"

I shot him a look that effectively conveyed _'I am going to kill you!' _before I took off running after the nearest target.

I quickly discovered that Nords, for a rather stocky race, run pretty fast. Brynjolf, I had no prayer of catching if he didn't want to be caught; the man spent most of his life evading authority. But little Mila Valentia, or even Braith, Amren's daughter… them I caught up to. Mila was shrieking with laughter when I tapped her between the eyes and made a quick about-face in the opposite direction: "Tag! You're it!"

I don't know how long that game kept up, passing off being 'it' and annoying the good citizens of Whiterun. I blew by the Twins at one point, funny enough. Vilkas' face proclaimed that couldn't decide whether to be offended that the high-and-mighty Harbinger was playing with children, or chalk it up to one of her many quirks and join in. Farkas was just howling with laughter. As time went by, more kids joined in the game, and I'm fairly certain Brynjolf just dropped off the face of Nirn. Man walks into the shadows and you might as well hang up your hat and call it a day.

The lot of us terrorized the Plains and the Winds Districts that day. Some of the more uppity citizens—Nazeem and Idolaf Battle-Born, chiefly—were just shy of disgusted that the legendary Dragonborn was so bastardizing herself (can I say that, if I am one?). But the lower class ones—Hulda, Arcadia, Carlotta Valentia—were smiling like icons of the goddess Mara herself. I waved just brightly enough to be sarcastic to a smiling Danica Pure-Spring with Mila's friend Babette hot on my heels.

I tore through the marketplace, past Breezhome, past the Drunken Huntsman, and back up to the Winds District by the other set of stairs, trying to shake her off. The kid ran fast for an eleven(?)-year-old. I was fairly shocked she could keep up—this was a _Nord_, after all. I twisted between houses, stepping lithely over a patch of rocks as I went. Behind me, the pattering of little feet suddenly stopped with a shocked gasp and a strangled "Dragonborn!"

I turned mid-stride, halting on my heels. "You okay…?" I began, only to have the breath knocked out of my lungs as I was tackled to the floor.

"What in Oblivion!?" Babette should _not _have been able to knock me over, much less prevent me from getting up by sitting on my ribcage. She shouldn't have weighed more than one hundred pounds, if that.

"Hail Sithis!" The girl hissed, and she smiled wide, exposing twin, lethal-looking fangs.

"_VAMPIRE!" _I shouted in a raw-throated yell, which was immediately followed by a rousing "_FUS!"_

That knocked her back, all right. But stupid me didn't have her swords on her. (Why do I never have those bloody things when I need them? Oi…) I took off in the opposite direction, calling on the first spell that popped into my head. Frost spikes hardly slowed the pint-sized vampire down any, however. And so I tore off toward the Gildergreen, cursing my slowly regenerating magicka all the while.

Fights always draw onlookers, and at first, this one made me seem the villain. "What are you _doing?!" _Danica Pure-Spring shouted at me. She knew better than to attempt to rein in the Dragonborn, but she still stepped protectively in front of Babette.

"Killing…" I began, conjuring two swords out of Oblivion. "…a bloody vampire, that's what!"

"Danica, help!" Babette pulled a doe-eyed look that nearly had _me_ going as she hid behind the priestess' skirts. "The Dragonborn's gone mad!"

"_That _is a vampire," I barked, pointing to the little she-demon with one ethereal sword, "and I can prove it!"

"That's an even worse idea…!" Danica began.

But it was too late—I'd already slashed at the exposed part of my arm with one of my conjured blades. I let the magicka dissipate and dropped to a crouch just before Danica, putting myself at eye-level with Babette. I held one blue-grey arm out, the one with the gaping wound. For a moment, no one moved, and I debated just running her through with the dagger in my boot and being done with it.

But then Babette clamped down hard on my arm, lightning fast. I immediately started drawing my magicka, the Thu'um—_anything_—as I tried to shake her loose physically, but Danica shrieked in panic and I lost my concentration. I felt myself going lightheaded and wasn't sure I'd have enough strength for another go. I was scrambling for suddenly-forgotten Draconic, for magic that was just out of my reach…

Then, like a bolt of lightning, a swift axe-kick was dropped on Babette's head, courtesy of a heavy heel. She released me with a pained howl and started to scramble backwards. My sudden savior abruptly changed the course of his next attack, and caught the vampire by the throat under his boot, pinning her to the ground. A torch was cracking in his left hand, the right one reaching for the Oblivion-blessed dagger sheathed in his boot.

"_Never _threaten my lass," Brynjolf growled between his teeth before introducing Babette's paper-dry, vampiric skin to a blazing torch.

Her shriek was unearthly, her cures, legendary. Off to my left, I think Danica fainted. It wasn't until Babette had been reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash that Brynjolf dropped to a crouch next to me. His battle-snarl had dropped quick as it came, and now the only thing in his eyes was genuine concern.

Neither of us said anything. Bryn just extended a hand to help me stand.

-)

Later that night, after the chaos of thwarting a Brotherhood agent died down ("How many kills are you up two now, Ty? Two? Three?" "Three-hundred and twelve, Delvin, and if you're not careful, it'll be three-thirteen!"), I made my way over to Dragonsreach to make the all-important climb up to the roof. It takes a few Shouts to get up here most days, and I'm still not sure how Farkas manages. I came up here looking for peace and quiet, some solitude. I found Brynjolf.

"Hey!" I exclaimed as I hauled myself up and over the edge of the roof. "This is _my_ spot to avoid people; find your own!"

He laughed. "Should I leave?"

"No," I replied with an overdramatic sigh, "since you went through all the trouble of getting up here I suppose you can stay. How did you even get _up _here, anyway? I have to Shout!"

"Thief," Brynjolf reminded with a good-natured smirk.

"Ah." We receded into silence after that.

I don't know how long we sat there in complete silence—an hour, two hours, ten minutes?—and just watched the stars. But everything comes to an end—especially silence. "How are you feeling?" Bryn asked, surveying me uneasily.

"A bit lightheaded, but it'll pass," I answered, opting for the truth. "Always does."

Brynjolf cocked an eyebrow. "Are you in the habit of getting bitten by vampires?"

I snorted. "Let's just say they aren't fond of werewolves."

He laughed. "That reminds me—did you get to the temple for healing today? If you contracted the Vampire's Disease, then…" I cut him off when I set my hand over his.

"Werewolves don't catch diseases," I reminded him. "We've never figured out why—Vilkas thinks it's because the wolf fights off anything that foreign, but who knows?"

"I guess that makes about as much sense as anything."

"Does it bother you?" I asked quietly. "That the creatures of your legends have come to life? That…" I trailed off.

"That the woman I love is one?" Brynjolf finished, and I nodded. "A bit, yeah. If you're Dragonborn, that makes you blood of Talos Stormcrown, one way or another."

I smiled weakly. "You're marrying into Talos' clan, did you realize?"

"That's a bizarre thought," Brynjolf offered up with a self-conscious little laugh. "Seems almost sacrilegious."

"It's true, though. _Dovah_ never really die; they are only lost to time. The Dovahsos, the Dragon Blood, lives on in the next Dragonborn. So we're not the same person, but you could say we're ancestors."

"What do you mean, they don't die? That… doesn't make any sense. You kill dragons all the time. I've _seen _you."

I sighed. "Paarthurnax explained it like this. Alduin returned fully and _first_ because the heroes of the Dragon War thousands of years ago used an Elder Scroll to send him forward in time. He didn't die—he couldn't, he can't—he was just lost to time. Well, time found him again in _this _age."

Brynjolf's brow furrowed. "So you didn't kill him either?"

I shook my head. "No. His being was snatched away before I could absorb it. And I don't even know what will happen to those souls when _I _die. I don't even want to think about it."

"You're an Elf; you've got time."

"I'm half Nord; I may not."

Brynjolf said nothing, merely laced our fingers together in solidarity. I think he understood that this was the last thing I wanted to be talking about right now. And so he asked a different question that was entirely unexpected: "Do you want children, Tiberia?"

Had I been drinking anything, I would've spat it out in shock. "Do I _what?"_

"Don't look so shocked," he admonished with a good-natured grin. "We're getting married; this is a perfectly legitimate question."

I sighed, the answer sinking in my heart like a stone. "Bryn, I'm not exactly what anyone would call the mothering type. And any children I ever have would have to get used to the idea that mother kills dragons for a living—she may or may not be coming home. Do I really want to bring that on someone? No. My own mother disappeared for months on end, too. I deeply resented her for it." I shook my head. "Do you? Want children, that is?"

"Of course." He flashed that disarming, charming smile he used to make people feel at ease. Only, with me, it was out of genuine concern, not the innate desire to rifle through my pockets. "But I'm a Nord. I suppose it's different on our end."

"Very different," I murmured.

I could feel his eyes on me, but couldn't bring myself to meet his gaze. "How? How is it so different?" He wasn't angry, just curious.

I sighed. "I have two sisters. That's almost _unheard _of, for an Elven family."

"You're joking."

I smiled weakly as I finally worked up the courage to meet his eyes. "I'm not. Why do you think elves make the 'humans breed like rodents' joke so damn often? Compared to us, you do."

"So what's normal for an elf, then?"

I sighed. "One child, maybe two if you're lucky. I suppose my mother was either very lucky or very _un_lucky, depending on how you look at it."

Brynjolf was visibly stunned by this information. "I can't even fathom…"

"It has to do with the monthly cycle," I offered up. To his eternal credit, Bryn didn't wince. "The one for we Elves is _very _different than the human one. Mine's gotten all skewed because I've lived alongside humans for so long, but that doesn't mean…"

"Or because you _are _human," he pointed out.

I paused. Hadn't thought of that. "Perhaps. But I wouldn't be the first Dunmeri woman to have it skewed because she spent too much time around humans. Human _men _specifically."

"By which you mean…?"

I snorted. "I lived in the College of Whispers for a time, then Jorrvaskr for ages, then the College of Winterhold, then army barracks, _then_ the Cistern."

"But what does that have to do with… well, you know?"

I let out a weak laugh at that. "Something about hormones and the Aylieds. I don't know—I never paid attention to my governess' physiology lessons..." At his confused look, I laughed again, and said, "Look Bryn, it's like this. Dunmer go through cycles where you're on it, and when you're off it. If you want to get technical about it, I should be off the cycle until I'm Ondolemar's age or so—fifty, sixty, somewhere in there. And it would be back on until I'm around ninety. Then drop off again, and pick up when I'm, say, Avalon's age—one-hundred twenty, one-hundred thirty. And then drop off at around one-fifty."

Bryn's brow furrowed. "How old do you elves live to be, exactly?"

I smirked. "My family gets to around two-hundred, if we don't get ourselves killed off first. Two-fifteen, max." It dropped, however, when I remembered, "But I won't get that old. The Nord blood will kick in sooner rather than later."

Bryn just squeezed my fingers in solidarity. How does one reply to that, anyway? "So Avalon and Neva are how old in relation to you?"

I smiled. "Avalon's one-hundred and twenty-seven, and Neva's one-hundred and fifty-three."

Brynjolf pressed his thumb and ring finger into his temples. "Elves and age is just… _augh, _my head hurts." Then he paused. "Did you say you had a _governess?"_

I shrugged. "Why would my mother do herself what she could pay someone else to?"

"Another Morwyn aphorism?"

"No, Indoril. And besides, Neva has no patience. She was hardly going to sit me down and teach me my numbers and whatnot, now was she?"

He nodded at that. "I can't imagine you ever sitting still long enough to be tutored."

"She had a hell of at time with it." I grinned as I remembered things long since pushed aside. "Always ended up turning me over to the quartermaster early because she was absolutely appalled at my lack of the ability to do anything feminine." At Bryn's cocked eyebrow, I elaborated: "Needlework, politics, the ability to speak without being blunt, the culinary arts, the ability to keep one's quarters clean… I was terrible with all if it. And apparently, to top it all off, my posture was _atrocious."_

"You stand like a swordswoman. Just to be expected."

"Yeah, well." I adopted the voice I used to mimic the stern old crone. "Stand up _straight, _Lady Tiberia! You can't expect to catch a husband carrying yourself like _that, _now can you?" I dropped back into my own voice. "Joke's on her, I guess."

Brynjolf absolutely cracked up at that one. Several minutes passed before his breathing was smooth enough to use it for speech. Laughter was still dancing behind his eyes, though. "You know lass, you never did answer the question."

I sighed, the frost drifting up to the Firmament. "I don't feel like I'm the sort of person who should be having children, is all."

All trace of mirth left his features. "Who told you that?"

"No one, I…"

"Neva?" He interrupted pointedly.

I paused, brow furrowed. "No, she didn't…" Wait just a gods-damned minute. "Actually, yeah. I think it may have been. How did you…?"

"I've just noticed," he said evenly, "that if you're insulting yourself, the words aren't yours. They're older, spiteful, and sound like they've been driven into your skull so many times you just believe them to get them off your back. Since I know Avalon didn't talk to you like that, that only leaves one option." At my silence, he added, "Look, Ty, I know it's not really my place, but your sister…"

"No, you're right," I said quietly. "Neva trained me to think I wasn't worth much of anything. Third child and all that. I came to Skyrim a very different woman than I am today, and you have the Companions to thank for the current version. Without them… I don't know what I'd be. Another soul in Alduin's belly, probably.

The next through truly scared him; I could see it in his eyes. "Did Alduin _really _eat the souls in Sovngarde?"

I nodded. "Some of them. A lot were released after he died, though."

More silence, then, "…We're getting off-topic again."

"We have a habit of it." We both chuckled at the truth in that. "As for your question Bryn… I suppose I'm not _opposed _to the idea, but just know it may or may not happen."

He grinned. "Good enough for now." Then his brow furrowed. "Oh, and Dragonborn?"

"Yeah?"

"How do you get down from here?"


	78. Lessons in the Key of Madness

**Hey all :) have a chapter. And as always, a big thank you to all you awesome readers, lurkers, and reviewers :)**

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**We know: Haha Sheogorath is coming soon… but that's not why :3**

**Onward.**

**-)**

That night, Mercer's memories slammed into me relentlessly as a waterfall.

_"…And do you ever wonder what it would be like to settle down, have a family?" Karliah asked, rapping her gloved knuckles soundlessly against the wall. "Just like Ceylon and Juri?"_

_ She was sitting across a wooden table from Mercer. They were in Falkreath Hold—Ceylon and Juri's home, actually—checking up on their old friends. They'd somehow gotten wrangled into looking after their boys while Ceylon and Juri ran their last Guild job (checking in with the Dark Brotherhood). Mercer still wasn't sure how it happened._

_ Homes in Falkreath were entirely wooden, and usually only a few rooms, built to conserve heat and keep the rain out. They were sitting in the main room, in full view of the front door, while little Raynor and Brynjolf slumbered in the room just behind them. The door was half open, so that the thieves could hear what was going on. They sat in semidarkness, the only light coming from the candle sitting on the table and the moonlight filtering in through the front window._

_ "Yeah, I've thought about it," Mercer answered. "Thought about how it's not going to happen to me, but yeah. Why, do you?"_

_ "Sometimes. But what do you mean, it won't happen to you?"_

Because you're with Gallus, _the darkness in his mind whispered. "That requires a girl, Indigo."_

_ She snorted. "As if a smooth-talking thief such as yourself is ever in want of _that."

_"There's _a _girl, and then there's _the _girl," Mercer couldn't help but reply. "There's a hell of a difference."_

_ Before Karliah could reply, a startled, scared noise sounded from within the next room. Both thieves immediately whipped their heads towards the source of the noise, leaping to their feet silently as cats. Karliah put a finger to her lips—as if Mercer needed to be told to be quiet—as she crept into the next room. Mercer watched from the doorframe as Karliah knelt beside Brynjolf's bedroll, tenderly reaching out to the terrified little Nord. He'd had a nightmare, then, Mercer figured. But what Karliah did next surprised him._

_ She extended her arms to the little boy, who shyly returned the hug as best he could. Karliah brought him close to her heart, and the little Nord snuggled up against her collarbone the same way any child does to its mother. Karliah slowly rose to her feet, still holding the Nord child, and padded back over to the main room. She and Mercer took their seats again as though nothing had happened, as though Karliah weren't holding Ceylon and Juri's younger son as if he were her own. _

_ "All I'm saying, Mercer, is that it wouldn't kill you to court someone," Karliah said with a good-natured kick at him from under the table. "There are plenty of Bretons in Riften. Not to mention Nords and Imperials."_

_ Mercer rolled his eyes and refrained from kicking back for Brynjolf's sake. "You've been around Gallus too long; that romanticist has addled your brains."_

_ He was immediately sorry he'd brought up the Guildmaster upon seeing Karliah's reaction. She always got this doe-eyed, happy air about her that just killed Mercer. "I just want you to be happy, Mercer. You deserve it as much as anyone else."_

_ Mercer snorted. "I'm a thief, Karliah." _

_ "And also a good man," Karliah replied swiftly. _

_ It sent a shiver down his spine, being called that by Karliah. _Damn, _why did he have to be so bloody shy? He'd missed his shot with her ages ago. "Flatterer," was his automatic rebuttal._

_ A grin spread across Karliah's face. "Smooth-talker, I think you mean."_

_ Mercer's eyebrow quirked upwards. "Oh? I'm sorry, what was that? I couldn't _hear_ you." _

_ Karliah's brows came down hard over those indigo eyes. "Oh, do shut up."_

_ Mercer smirked. "It wouldn't kill _you _to speak up, you know."_

_ "He's asleep," she countered, gesturing to the sleeping Nord in her arms. "So ha." She stuck her tongue out at him._

_ Mercer rolled his eyes, but nevertheless, asked, "Is he really?"_

_ Karliah nodded. "Listen."_

_ They fell silent, and sure enough, Mercer could pick out the little Nord's steady breathing amongst the other sounds of the night (the crickets outside, the creaking of the old house in the winds, the rain outside splattering against the porch outside). The older Mercer, the one I had known, couldn't help but note the surreality of the whole episode. Karliah, acting as a mother figure. Little Brynjolf, who would grow up to be one of his most talented operatives, who gave _other _people nightmares in his adult life, scared. And it almost made the older Mercer smile that even at three years old, Brynjolf's hair had been a violent auburn._

_ "He must feel safe around you," Mercer said quietly, "if he can fall asleep so quickly."_

_ "Nords tend to hate elves," she commented absentmindedly. "Perhaps there is hope for his race, yet."_

_ "I don't think a three-year-old hates much of anything, other than naps."_

_ Karliah laughed softly at that, the sound like music to his ears despite himself. But she couldn't disguise the following yawn. "I think you may be on to something there, Old Man."_

_ Mercer smiled—not smirked, _smiled. _"Karliah, you're exhausted. Go get some sleep; I'll wait up for Ceylon and Juri."_

_ "You're working on the same sleep I am. I'll be fine, Mercer." She yawned again. "Truly."_

_ "Yawn again, I dare you."_

_ Karliah laughed again, softly. "Fine, you win. Here. Take him." She gently handed Brynjolf over to the Breton. "Don't hesitate to wake me, if you need me."_

_ Mercer nodded, adjusting the sleeping little Nord in his arms. "Always, Indigo." _

_Karliah nodded, and disappeared into Ceylon and Juri's room, where she and Mercer had set up their bedrolls in the couple's absence. She had left him alone with just his thoughts, however. The Darkness was needling at him, as it always did, and the Lightness, as always, was fighting back. But it was getting tired._

_Mercer glanced down to the sleeping child in his arms. "Brynjolf," he murmured to the little redheaded Nord, "take my advice—never fall in love with a Dark Elf."_

And then the scene changed.

"_GALLUS!" Karliah shouted, pounding into the Cistern with unusually loud steps. "Dammit, Desidenius! Where are you?!"_

"_Whoa, Indigo, slow down," Mercer laughed, catching his friend by the shoulder. "What's got you so excited? I thought that was blasphemy for an elf."_

_She shot him a look, but it was undermined by the sheer excitement in her eyes. "I have some wonderful news I need to share with the man—if I could only _find _him!"_

"_He left on a job a few hours ago," Delvin offered, coming over to see what the commotion was. "Should be back soon enough. Though… what is going on?"_

_Karliah shook her head. "He needs to hear it first."_

"_Indigo," Mercer said decisively with an oh-come-now look shot her way._

_Karliah opened her mouth to retort, paused, then shut it again. A wide smile broke out across her face against her wishes. "Delvin, go away. Mercer can keep a secret; you can't."_

"_Lass, I am personally offended," Delvin assured her, with a hand over his heart. _

"_Good, that was my intent."_

_Delvin shuffled off with a 'humph!' as Mercer's laughter echoed throughout the Cistern. "What is going _on, _Karliah?"_

_She looked so happy in this moment, so proud. "I think I'm pregnant."_

_The knowledge mentally staggered Mercer. Pregnant? That would mean she and Gallus… oh. Oh Divines. Outwardly, though, he broke out into a practiced grin. "That's wonderful, Indigo!" He embraced her briefly, as a Guildbrother. "Just don't go running off like Juri, now."_

_She flashed her dangerous grin. "Wouldn't dream of it, Old Man." She disappeared again, still looking for Gallus._

_As soon as she left, Delvin clapped a hand to Mercer's shoulder. Later in life, he would say that Mercer's expression once Karliah left was the most heart-wrenching thing he'd ever seen. _

I knew that Karliah was lying; that must have been her plan with my mother regarding me she was talking about. But oi, Mercer's reaction…

_He paid the innkeeper for a room and immediately went and locked himself inside. Mercer was utterly exhausted after all he'd been through today, but feeling rather accomplished. He glanced over his shoulder, as though the door was going to burst open at any moment. When nothing came after him—no ancestor ghosts, blue and moaning—he removed from one of his pockets a small, leather-wrapped package._

_Mercer sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, engrossed in unwrapping the bundle in his hands. When the leather was finally fully opened, he couldn't help but gawk at the beauty of what lay inside. A small, glowing blue knob, attached to jagged key teeth by a thin metal rod, the Skeleton Key was a thing of beauty. Even now, the Darkness whispered to him._

You will be a great thief one day, _it whispered. _This is your first step.

_If only Karliah was there to share it with…_

And again, the scene changed.

"_Eyes front, Indigo. Let's go."_

_He stood in Snow-Veil Sanctum, very close to losing it. His sword was drawn, his heart hardened to the woman he once loved. Behind him, near the door, the Dragonborn lay paralyzed. She could have cried out when the arrow pierced her—instead, she'd sworn. Mercer had a lot of respect for me, I realized. More than I'd ever thought possible, from him._

"_I'm no fool, Old Man," Karliah murmured blackly. "Crossing blades with you would be a death sentence." She drank deep of a bottle, and then disappeared instantly, inherently invisible. "But I can assure you—the next time we meet, it will be your _undoing."

_Wasn't that just like Indigo, disappearing with Alchemy? Damnable woman. Mercer's head whipped around, listening for footsteps, breathing, anything. But all he heard was the Dragonborn's ragged breathing. He carefully padded over, dropping to a crouch to look me in the eyes._ _The fierce crimson orbs stared back in open defiance. Mercer half-wished I hadn't heard so much; I was one of the only operatives he trusted to do a job and do it right. But, his own hide came before mine… even if it would probably send Brynjolf over the edge._

"_Now isn't that interesting," he muttered. "Gallus' history repeating itself. Looks like Karliah finally did something right—providing me with the means to be rid of you." Mercer knew Daedric armor had a clasp somewhere near the ribs. His hand went searching for it. "You're just like Raynor Ceylonson—a bit too curious, a bit too clever, a bit too violent for your own good—you know that?" He smirked as he remembered Brynjolf's older brother, and more importantly, how his friend the Darkness had shown him how to be rid of the annoyingly perceptive Nord. "How's it feel, little elfling, to be interred with your Nord ancestors for all eternity? To know you'll never see Red Mountain again? To know your Ancestors will forsake you, unburned and bloodied as you are? …Ah, there it is." He unlatched the Daedric-forged ebony, exposing my ribs. Mercer knew exactly what he was saying, what every insult meant. Karliah had taught him at least that much, however backhandedly. "You know what intrigues me the most, though? This was all possible because of you, Tiberia. But it looks like I'll be putting Ulfric Stormcloak out of his misery." Better to have the man turn away from his Guild, anyway. Sacrifice the one for the good of the many, and all that. Especially if one of the many was him._

_Mercer drew his trusty sword once more, and dropped into a battle crouch. He would at least send me off as befitting a warrior. It was the proper thing to do. "Farewell, Dragonborn." Mercer lunged forward, slipping his sword between my ribs. "I'll be sure to give Brynjolf your regards." I watched him yank the Dwarven blade out of my side with a sickening squelch._

_The Dragonborn would be dead soon enough, he reasoned. No need to stick around in this draugr-infested pit. Besides, Karliah might still be nearby. If he could take care of her… He stopped at the archway between this chamber and the Hall of Stories, and spared a glance behind him, at the dying Dragonborn._

_She—I—was on her knees, her lifeblood leaking all over the floor. Paralysis didn't stop one from making noise; she could have been whimpering, shrieking, or crying. But she did none of those things. She instead faced her death with a stone-faced calm, with a righteous fury that emanated from her very core. Mercer spared a lopsided smirk for me. One hell of a woman, Brynjolf's girl was._

And once more, the scene changed.

_He stood on the edge of the book in the gigantic Snow Elf's hand, weighing his options. Getting Brynjolf and Karliah out of the way for the moment would be easy enough—Nightingale Subterfuge would take care of them. It was me—Tiberia, the Dragonborn—he was worried about. As far as swordplay was concerned, we were at the very least, equals. Mercer was fairly certain that I would end up winning out of sheer youthful vitality. And the fury in my eyes was absolutely terrifying—it was like staring down a dragon. _

"_There is more courage in the Guild, Mercer Frey, than there is among the Companions." That deadly alto rose to fill the carnivorous room, making Mercer inherently uneasy. "More integrity than among the Stormcloak Rebellion, the Imperial Legion, the rising Blades, and the College of Winterhold. There is more nobility within the Ratway than in the Jarls' Courts and the Great Houses of Morrowind. There is honor among thieves, Mercer. I have seen it."_

"_Perhaps…" Mercer forced himself to shrug, to seemingly lazily test the weight of his steel dagger. "…but you're just an unwilling Nightingale. I can see it in your eyes. You pity me." That last bit offended him. He was not a man to _pity, _but one to _fear. _And he could tell I had been shanghaied into serving Nocturnal—I was a daedra-worshipper dedicated to a different Daedra. Karliah had had the same problem, once upon a time. _

"_Mercer, it is possible to separate man from monster. I know; I do it every day." Ah, that was right. The Dragonborn was a Companion Bitch. "You deserve no more pity…" How mocking I made the word sound. "…than a feral werewolf." I drew the blades at my hips, Dawnbreaker and the Ebony Sword of the Blaze, and Mercer knew that his fate was sealed. "And you will be treated as such."_

"_Then the die is cast." Mercer drew his own Dwarven blade to match his dagger, ready for whatever came next. "And my blade will once again taste Nightingale blood!"_

But the battle was whisked away from me, and something else took its place.

_Mercer glanced up from his desk to see the Dragonborn striding across the room towards him. Oi, that woman knew how to make an entrance. "Tiberia, where have you been all morning?!" he barked. _

_ "Been training the Whelp," the Dragonborn snapped back, immediately dropping the song she'd been singing. "He might not get himself killed in a knife fight now."_

_ "Good to hear," said Brynjolf as he fell in line next to his lass. "And you wanted to see me, Guildmaster?"_

_ Seeing the two together was almost physically painful, it reminded him so much of his time with Karliah. Outwardly, however, Mercer just scowled, leveling a world-class glare at his Second-in-Command and the Dragonborn who reminded him so much of the woman he'd lost. We're they both House Indoril, too…? "Now that you're both here, maybe we can finally get something done around here. Since the both of you are familiar with the fiasco involving Gulum-Ei in Solitude, I think I can skip that, yes?"_

_ As expected, the fire in the Dragonborn's eyes flared. "Oblivion take him!" _

_ "Yes, well." Mercer cocked an eyebrow. It was so easy to set her off. "He's still got information we need. Big, bad Brynjolf…" The Nord in question snapped to attention. He'd been surveying the Dark Elf next to him without even bothering to be subtle about it. "…I was going to send you to Solitude to take care of this. But then I realized, I'm not sending any of my operatives after that slimy bastard alone—not after what happened the last time. Nor would I try to deny the woman some well-deserved revenge." He gestured to me, who smirked. "So the both of you are going to Solitude."_

_ The Dragonborn's smile grew deadly, and she slammed a fist into her other hand's open palm. "About time I got some good, old-fashioned revenge on the fetcher." _

_ Oh, that was right. Bloodthirsty little thing, wasn't she? "We can't have him dead, Tiberia." _

_ "Where's the fun in that!?" _

_ It took all of Mercer's willpower not to shake his head as he relayed the rest of the job. "That's bloody brilliant," Brynjolf commented after Mercer finished._

_ Mercer just spread his arms wide. "Why do you think I'm the one in charge, boy? Now get to it." The two of them snapped into action before he'd even finished speaking, without even alerting the other they'd be moving. Such a beautiful rapport the two had, such an easy relationship. How badly would it end, Mercer wondered, if the Dragonborn were to give in to that rage lurking just beneath the surface, to the—what did she call it—Dovah?_

_ His rasping, whetstone-on-a-blade bass finished what she had started. "Dragonborn, for your blessing we pray…" They were all going to need it._

"_SHEOGORATH!"_ I shouted desperately as I was snapped out of Vaermina's realm. "_What more do you want from me!?"_


	79. The Seer and the Sightless

**Hey everyone :) Here's the next chapter. Enjoy :D and as always, a big-ass thank you to all my wonderful readers, lurkers, and reviewers. You guys are awesome.**

**And the Non-PM crew:**

**Aleidis: Glad to see you're still here :) and I knew as soon as Bryn told that story way back when, it would be one of the memories**

**We know: Haha nice :) I'm not sure how many of these things are let, actually.**

**Through the Fire and Flames, we carry on :D**

**-)**

I didn't sleep much in the days leading up to Ulfric's assault on Whiterun. I mean, between the Beast Blood and my own insomnia, I never slept much anyway, but now, whenever I lay my head down, I was assaulted by Mercer's memories. I couldn't make sense out of them—there was no coherent pattern. There were bits and pieces from his time in the Guild, his time in Honorhall, his time as a traitor, but none of it made any thrice-blasted sense. I got it; he never got over Karliah. I got it; he respected me as a warrior. I got it; he envied the relationship Bryn and I had, because once upon a time, he could've had something similar. What in blazes was Sheogorath trying to tell me?

I pondered this as I sat at the bar in the Bannered Mare. It was the night after Babette's failed assassination attempt, a full twenty-four hours passing between that assassin and me. And that was another thing to worry me—how had a vampire gotten past so many werewolves? And how did the Dark Brotherhood know _exactly _whom to send? Send a normal assassin, any sort of sneak, and not only would any of my Guildsiblings peg them from fifty yards as a criminal, but also to get to me, said assassin would have to make it through a full-to-bursting Jorrvaskr without getting his head chopped off. No, someone had told them whom to send. I just didn't know _who_—and prayed it wasn't Avalon.

"Keep scowling like that, and your face'll stay that way," Vilkas said by means of greeting, claiming the barstool on my right.

"Aye, and you're too pretty for that," Farkas added, taking the one on my left.

"Who asked you two?" I huffed, balancing my forehead on my palm as my elbow rested on the bar.

"Your thief friend," Farkas said with a smile, jerking his head in a certain direction.

I cocked an eyebrow his way. "You're going to have to be more specific; I have a lot of those."

"The one who's marrying you, idiot," Vilkas interjected. "Though… he's not acting like it, at the moment."

I glanced in the direction Farkas had gestured, and found Brynjolf schmoozing the way he was born to. He had these two farm girls wrapped around his little finger, no problem. I snorted. "I appreciate your concern, boys," I said to the Twins, "but you don't have to worry about that one. Brynjolf and Vex have a bet going. And I'd rather see him win than her."

Farkas cocked an eyebrow. "What's the bet?"

"Watch carefully," I said, pressing a finger to my lips and jerking my head in Bryn's direction. "But don't make yourselves too obvious, or he'll lose."

We three Companions watched Brynjolf in his element a moment. He could be quite charming when he wanted to, I knew, and had I not been wearing his clan ring, I might have even been a tad jealous. He was chatting up two pretty girls, easy pickpocketing marks—new to town, almost naïve… ah, there he went. If I'd blinked at the wrong moment, I'd've missed it. But nope, Brynjolf half stumbled, and one of the girls caught him. He thanked her, flushing crimson, and disappeared. And she never noticed her bracelet was now missing.

Vilkas' jaw actually dropped. "And she just didn't notice? That's incredible."

"I kind of feel like we should tell her," Farkas admitted. I swatted at his hand.

"What are we talking about?" Brynjolf asked, coming over to the bar with a tankard in hand.

I shook my head. "Nothing, Bryn. Just admiring your pickpocketing skills."

He grinned, and withdrew from his bracer the gold-and-jade bracelet in question. He splayed it between his fingers. "Hey Ty, you want a new bracelet?" All four of us cracked up at that—I wore no jewelry but an Amulet of Talos.

"So where's Vex?" I prompted as Bryn slipped the bracelet into one of his many pockets.

"Should be in a general that way direction," Brynjolf answered, gesturing somewhere over his left shoulder.

I followed his fingers, and sure enough, there was Vex, schmoozing some older Imperial in much the same way Brynjolf had been with those two farm girls mere moment earlier. "But seriously," Vilkas said, if only to stop himself from going over there and warning the man, "what is this bet you two have going?"

Brynjolf shrugged as he took a draught from his tankard. "The usual. Whoever brings in less gold by the end of the night is buying drinks."

"So who's winning?" I asked as the Twins both burst out laughing.

"I think I am," Brynjolf answered in all honesty. "I haven't really been keeping tabs on Vex, but I usually do. And it's pathetically easy to pickpocket in this town. You'd think they'd never met a thief."

I shook my head. "Thief around here means bandit, not the smooth-talking man you meet in the tavern."

"Hmm," said Brynjolf, sizing up the room over the rim of his tankard to find his next mark.

The front doors burst open at that moment, ushering in a crisp wind. With the shift in the wind, however, brought a brand new scent to the Beast in me. Farkas and Vilkas caught it too; both men immediately stiffened. "The wolves?" Brynjolf asked, his voice low and urgent. We three nodded.

"Tell Vex to get away from him," Vilkas said at once.

I slid off my barstool. "He smells like Sithis."

Brynjolf and I made our way over to where Vex and her new 'friend' were standing near the fire. The woman was a shameless flirt when it suited her, but even she backed off at our approach. "Bryn, Ty, what's…?" she began.

But Brynjolf yanked her back as sparks crackled to life at my fingertips. "You smell like Sithis," I growled, and Avalon's half of the Blood Bond filled in a name: "Festus Krex."

He was balding, his face wrinkled and careworn, and his dark eyes went wide as saucers at the mention of his name. "I don't suppose you'd accept a 'business is business' and let me be on my way, 'ey Dragonborn?"

"Not in the slightest," I barked as magicka surged to my fingertips.

But then I had a better idea.

As he brought his hands up to cast a ward, I drove my shoulder into his gut. He was knocked backwards with a startled 'oof!' and after some wrestling and wrangling, he ended up with his face mere inches from the fire and my knee in his back. "Listen to me very closely, and you may walk away with your head," I snarled. "Do we have an accord?"

I made him nod, as I had his skull in my hand. "Aye," Festus said, trying—and failing—to sound anything other than terrified.

I lowered my head so that the words reached only him. The ends of my hair were inches from the fire. "You go back to your sanctuary, and you tell your mistress Astrid that only a fool thinks an assassin can kill the Dragonborn. You tell her that I am fully prepared to destroy the Brotherhood, if that's what it takes. You tell her that she will _never _get the drop on a Morwyn." I released his head and slammed my boot into his ribs, and he collapsed just beside the fire pit. "Now get out."

The Imperial Mage knew what he was outmatched. Brynjolf had drawn Mehrunes' Razor, Farkas and Vilkas their broadswords, Vex her dagger, Njada and Athis their swords, Delvin had magicka crackling at his fingertips and so did Ravyn Imyan—and those were just my friends in the pub. Never mind the other patrons from Whiterun that weren't about to let their Thane be murdered. And never mind the Thane herself, who was drawing on the Thu'um.

"I go," Festus Krex said, holding his hands up, palms facing him.

"We'll escort you out," Vilkas said in a tone that booked no room for argument.

He, his twin, and the would-be Brotherhood assassin left the pub without another word.

-)

I awoke that night absolutely fed up with my dreams. I was sick of Mercer's memory keeping me from sleep—I wanted _answers, _dammit! So I threw on a robe, cinched it tight around my waist, and went to the only other seer I knew.

I stood outside his door without a care for how loud I was being.Bam bam bam. "Farkas!" Bam bam bam! "Get out here!"

Something shifted within the room, I heard Aela's voice murmur something I couldn't catch, and a moment later, Farkas appeared in the doorway. He was shirtless, dressed in the loose breeches Nords tended to favor as far as sleep is concerned. "Something wrong, Harbinger?"

"A lot of things. Now come on; find a shirt and meet me outside."

Farkas slipped back into his room a moment, grabbed the first shirt his fingers came into contact with, and then followed me up the stairs, yanking the cloth over his head as we went. He was still half-drowsy from sleep as we padded up the stairs. But as soon as we stepped outside, onto the back porch of Jorrvaskr, the cold wind slapped him awake. We both stood barefoot on the flagstones, and the wind cut through us like knives. This wouldn't take long. It couldn't.

"You're a seer," I offered up at the questioning look he was giving me. "I was hoping you could help me."

"I wouldn't say I'm a seer, but I see things, sometimes," Farkas answered, folding his arms across his torso. Gods, there were some times that he looked _just _like his brother. "What did you see, Morwyn?"

"I see Mercer," I said, mirroring his pose in an attempt to trap some of my body heat. "And there's no rhyme or reason as to why. I can't…"

"Visions always have a theme," he said at once. "If you can't see it, you're thinking too simply, too literally. You're a practical woman, Ty. You need to look into yourself to find meaning in this."

I grimaced. "I've never been good with introspection."

Farkas smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. The Sight was too deeply disconcerting for that. "Then _get_ better. Start now. What have you seen?'

My brow furrowed. "You mean, literally?'

"Yes. Shut your eyes; it helps."

I closed my eyes, as bidden. Immediately, Mercer's memory sprang forth out of the darkness. "It's his time with the Guild before Gallus' murder, mostly. Back when he ran with Karliah and Brynjolf's parents, Ceylon of Falkreath and Juri of Solitude. Or they're of his perception of me, as Guildmaster."

"The monster brought high, the man brought low," Farkas murmured. "You know what that means."

"Companions wisdom," I said with a nod. "That's what makes a werewolf feral."

"Not just werewolves—man. A Guildmaster. A Dragonborn. Anyone can become feral if they so choose." Farkas paused here, as though mulling something over in his mind. "How did Mercer see you?'

"As a true Dunmer—born of ash, furious in all. Bloodthirsty, and with a fire burning from deep within, always." I paused, realizing something: "He saw a _dovah_. Right from the start, he saw a _dovah_. No wonder he was never fooled."

"Even Vilkas never saw such fire in you." Farkas' comment drifted across my stream-of-consciousness like a flurry of snow.

"Did the Key amplify it," I wondered, "or am I really so full of fire?"

"Perhaps both, perhaps neither."

I opened one crimson eye, just a slit, and found Farkas appraising me in a way eerily similar to Kodlak. "You're maddeningly unhelpful, you know that?"

"Oh, please. You're already mad; you don't need my help for that. And what of Karliah? How did he see her?"

"Same way anyone sees their beloved, I should say."

"Really? A Breton fell in love with a Dark Elf and you're telling me it never messed with his head?"

"I suppose it did." I paused, thinking. "The blue-skinned thing freaked him out a little. Plus, Karliah was straight out of Morunhold when she joined ranks. An oddball, even by Guild standards."

"You still act like you're straight out of Morrowind. Probably triggered something."

"Maybe..."

"So why would he associate you with Karliah?"

"We're _Dunmer, _icebrain."

"Think harder, s'wit."

"We're cousins…?"

_"Harder."_

"Take-no-prisoners and firebrands?"

"Closer. But you're thinking on a literal level."

"Look, I don't know _why_ I reminded Mercer of his lost love. It isn't like the feelings translated."

"Didn't they?"

"Sweet Meridia, no!" I shuddered at the thought.

"How do you know?"

"There was no awkward tension, no change in demeanor, and he didn't hate Brynjolf. If anything, my relationship with Bryn only irked him because it was like watching a braver, more confident version of himself with Karliah."

"Hmm," said Farkas, and I could sense him rocking back on his heels. "A curiosity, then."

"Something like that, aye."

"Hmm. Well, I won't pretend to understand the inner workings of a madman."

"That's just it though, Farkas. He isn't…" Sigh. "…_wasn't _mad. Just the opposite, actually. He never lost the cold and calculating part of his mind. If anything, it grew."

"You're mad, and neither have you."

That set me back a tad. "No man thinks he's mad."

"And yet, men worship Sheogorath. Openly."

"He claimed me—what choice did I have?"

"I don't blame you, Morwyn. I'm only saying that the two of you aren't so different. We're all mad, here."

"I know that. Why would Lord Sheogorath beat a dead horse?" I opened my eyes.

"It's a warning," Farkas said ominously, "plain and simple. You're just…"

"I'm just what?"

"Well, for a creature so steeped in legend, you're pretty terrible at recognizing it even when it hits you between the eyes."

I had no rebuttal for that, just a question. "What do you mean, legend?"

"Morwyn, if Sheogorath really is trying to get to you through Mercer, he's either not doing a good enough job of it, or you're just too dense for whatever he's trying to say. Maybe it's about time you summoned him?" Farkas' silvery-grey eyes—so similar to his brother's, and yet so different—flickered up to meet mine.

I refused to look away. "Nord, you do not know what you are asking."

"I think I have a better idea than you give me credit for." There was no bite to Farkas' words, but I felt the sting nonetheless.

I could feel the ears on my spirit wolf droop. "Forgive me; I forget sometimes I'm not the only one who's grown up in the past few years."

Before Farkas could respond, the doors to Jorrvaskr were thrown open, and the rest of the Circle padded out onto the porch. Both Vilkas and Aela were also barefoot, driven out into the bitter almost-winter winds by the distress of Soul-Shield and spouse, respectively. "Everything alright?" Aela asked quietly.

They took their places beside Farkas and me, enclosing the Circle for the first time in too long. "It will be," I answered.

Somewhere out in the distance, a wolf howled to the waxing moons.


	80. Intermezzo

**Hey everyone, have a chapter! :) A big thank you to all you awesome readers, lurkers, and reviewers :) You guys kick ass.**

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**Guest: Thank you :) So glad you enjoy**

**We know: Haha I don't have many either. That's why I write the mystery :3**

**Stephan: Thank you :) **

**Onwards.**

**-)**

There's always something soothing about twilight. Maybe it's just because in Skyrim, that's when everyone rushes indoors before the cold nights set in, but I feel like even when I lived in Morrowind, I loved this time of day. The streets are emptying, the town quieting, and it's not long until the stars come out. It's peaceful, I suppose. And I don't get much peace.

So the next night I wandered through the streets, occasionally affirming a "Hail, Companion!" or an "Evening, Arch-Mage." I don't know what exactly I was looking for, but it's the same thing I've been searching for all my life and never found. I stood before the statue of Talos with my hands behind my back, scrutinizing the face of the past Dragonborn as though it held the secrets to my life.

"How did you do it?" I murmured to the god in the silent plaza. "How did you do it without losing your mind? I haven't… I can't…."

"You know, they say talking to yourself is the first sign of madness," commented a voice with a thick Southern Skyrim accent, its owner coming to stop beside me.

I glanced over to Regan, smirking. Funny, how similar his features were to Raynor's—at least, if Brynjolf's journal was to be believed. And he had an accent even thicker than his cousin's, whose lilt had been tempered a bit by his time in Riften. Regan was Clan, through and through. That much was obvious. "It's not talking to yourself if there's a god in the way." I gestured to the statue before us.

"True enough," Regan laughed. "And that would work, if you were a devout of the Divines. So tell me, Dovahkiin, why _are _you standing out in the cold, talking to a god you don't worship?" Dovahkiin… only the most patriotic Nords called me that.

I sighed, the exhaled frost like steam from a dragon's throat. "Just wondering how he did it, is all."

"Did what?"

"I'm not the first Dragonborn General of Skyrim, Regan."

That set him back a tad. "You've read the legends, right? Heard the stories? Then you know…"

"The legends tell us what he did, not who he was," I interrupted. "I want to know how he juggled his inner selves because I can't seem to be able to."

"Inner selves?"

"Aye: the Nord, the Elf, the _Dovah_, the Wolf, and Mercer Frey."

Regan blinked in recoil. "You have all that going on in your head?"

I nodded. "All the time. Except Mercer, he's a rather new addition. Farkas figures Sheogorath is trying to tell me something. And maybe he is, but maybe he's not. If the Daedra are tag-teaming, there's no telling who's really behind it."

Regan nodded, accepting the information with remarkable ease. "What prompted the sudden worry, Tiberia? You're a strong woman, and this is hardly news."

I shrugged. "It's easy to be strong when it's your only option. I could be strong enough to avenge Kodlak, or I couldn't. I could be strong enough to make it through the Labyrinthian, or I couldn't. I could be strong enough to kill Mercer Frey, or I couldn't. I can be strong enough to defeat Ulfric Stormcloak, or I can't. There is no in-between. I've just wondering lately… what happens when I have another choice?"

Regan shrugged. "I don't know, Dovahkiin. But my cousin is hardly going to let you go at it alone, whatever comes to rest at your doorstep."

"Time will tell if that's a blessing or a curse."

He smiled, echoing Brynjolf in the sentiment. "Courting a legend comes with its dangers. He knows that." Then he turned serious. "He's worried about you, you know."

I shot him a look and mockingly clapped a hand to my face. "By Shor, I can only imagine why!"

"Talos knows you're a fighter; I can see it in your eyes." Regan snorted. "He isn't worried about the upcoming war in the sense that traditional spouses do. He's more worried you'll go do something stupid like at the Battle of Riften."

My brow furrowed. "We won that."

"Aye," Regan agreed with a nod, "but at what cost to yourself?"

My spirit wolf rocked back on its haunches as I paused to think. "He worries the _dovah _will win again." Not a question, a fact.

Regan nodded. "He's not said as much, but aye, one would think so. The stories that circulated around Skyrim after the battle… sweet _Talos,_ they were terrifying. No one knew the Dragonborn could be so cruel."

"That was part of the point," I admitted, glancing back to Talos again. "If the Guild could walk in the shadow of the Dovahkiin's cruelty, none would dare stand against it."

"So you made yourself a martyr." There was a new, harder edge to Regan's words.

I turned sharply to face him. "I made myself their _shield. _Do not make me into a hero, Clansman. I'm not one. I'm the farthest thing from it."

Regan snorted derisively. "So you didn't slay the World-Eater, aren't Harbinger, Guildmaster, and Arch-Mage, and aren't General of the Stormblade Army?"

"That is what I have done, not who I am…" I paused, realizing what he'd just said. "Is that what they're calling themselves?"

Regan's rising anger dissipated into the winds. "Aye, they call themselves Stormblades. And why wouldn't you call yourself a hero? All you've done, lass, and anyone else would."

"A hero is someone to look up to," I said quietly, "to aspire to become like. The Nerevarine was a hero, the Grey Fox, the Hero of Kvatch, Tiber Septim—take your pick. I'm just a warrior. Point me towards an enemy, and I will gladly go forth and meet them in bloody battle, but a hero? _Nchow_, if I should be so noble. I'm too bloodstained for that. Too human. But you didn't come here to listen to me prattle on, eh? What did you need?"

Regan glanced skyward, then waved me off. "That can wait. Now you've got me curious."

"Curious as to what?"

"If you aren't a hero, Dovahkiin, are you the villain?"

I shook my head. "The world isn't so simple, Regan. People don't fall into the neat little categories we try to put them in. When we try to mold someone into them, we become less than who we were meant to be."

Regan's whole body paused. "Brynjolf has mentioned your sisters a few times," he said quietly. "How the eldest one, now the First Emissary in Skyrim, raised you. She tried to categorize you, 'ey lass?"

I nodded. "He wasn't lying. You're referring to my oldest sister, Neva. The batshit crazy one."

Regan cocked an eyebrow. "I thought you were the mad one?"

I cracked a smile rueful as Clavicus Vile's axe. "Is that what they say about me in the barracks and the taverns? That I'm Stormblade, and I'm mad?"

"They say a lot about you in the barracks and the taverns," Regan countered easily. "To hear Ralof tell it, you're the fearless woman he escaped the fires and screaming of Helgen with. Is it true you bit the Imperial Inquisitor when she tried to take you to the block?"

I nodded, snorting at the memory. "I'd forgotten about that."

Regan smiled. "And to hear Erandur tell it, you're a fierce, devout worshipper of the Daedra, even after all these years in Skyrim. You gave no thought to your own safety, worrying for his all the way through Nightcrawler Temple."

"That's hardly fair; the man's a Mage. They don't _do _melee very well."

Still, Regan continued. "To hear Lydia tell it, you're the legendary Dovahkiin, slayer of dragons and stealer of their souls. Your Thu'um shakes the very bones of Nirn when you unleash it."

"It does that for everyone…"

"_And _to hear Delphine tell it, you're a misguided halfwit who has no business being the hero of legend. But no one really listen to her, anyway, and I think Onmund threw a shoe at her, once."

I rolled my eyes. "_Tcha_, I know I never did. Go kill Paarthurnax, she said as though I'd do it."

"And to hear Delvin tell it," Regan continued unperturbed, "you're a bit of an enigma who is somehow simultaneously the high-and-mighty Dragonborn and a shitty pickpocket."

I chortled. "That sounds like Delvin. Anything else?"

"That's it… oh!" Regan paused to level me in his gaze. "And to hear Brynjolf tell it, you are a woman in over her head in too many factions, but with the strength and the alacrity to quite possibly pull this off."

I smiled softly. "And that sounds like Brynjolf." I paused. "So what do you say, Regan?"

Judging by how his eyes widened, he hadn't been expected the question. "Me?"

"Aye, you. We'll be family soon enough, it isn't so strange to ask. And I know you and Aisling have opinions on me. Strong ones, too. You're related to Brynjolf, after all."

Regan actually laughed at that, but then he turned somber. He uneasily ran his fingers over the edges of his battle-axe, which was strapped across his back in the two-handed style. "You're strong and you're stubborn, lass. Exotic and familiar, all at once. You let your actions speak for you, and you don't desire power, wealth, position, or glory. That makes you as much a power player as any Jarl in this war. And…" he dropped his voice an octave or so. "…I served in the Stormcloak army for several years until my son was born. I was granted leave to be home with my wife. Honestly, I'd rather serve under the Daughter than the Father. _You _care for Skyrim, for her people, for the cause. Ulfric cares for himself."

"You're married?" Everything to question in that, and _that's _what I come up with. Oi, I could smack myself sometimes.

Regan nodded, smiling softly. "Aye, five years now. My wife's back home in Falkreath with our son. He's three, now, the little firebrand."

My brow furrowed. "Why didn't she come with you?"

"Not a warrior, my wife. I love her just the same. Aisling came to Whiterun with me instead because my sister is fiery in the way of the Clan. Who would dare keep her from a fight?"

"No wise man," I agreed with a laugh, thinking of Brynjolf's other cousin. "When did you serve the Stormcloaks?"

"I joined shortly after the Dragon Crisis."

"Sheogorath's balls, that's when I joined ranks! Why did I never serve with you?"

Regan shrugged. "I never had the opportunity to serve under the Dark Elven General so many soldiers were on about. Ralof spread your legend further than you even know."

I snorted. "I'll have to have a chat with that man soon."

"It's all true," Regan offered up.

I let out an exasperated sigh. "I suppose that's all I can ask."

Silence fell between us then. But there was another question: "Regan, you remember the night I dragged Thrynn back to Jorrvaskr, right?" He nodded. "What did you mean, you see in me what Bryn does?"

Another unexpected question—Regan's eyes widened again in faint surprise. "You're not a Nord, and you hate the cold. There were several full-blooded Nords in Jorrvaskr that night who would have been more than willing to go look for your lost Guildbrother, and yet you went yourself. That's exactly the kind of sacrifice Erandur talks about. That's the kind of thing that speaks to my cousin. He's not a man who thinks in words—Brynjolf thinks in actions."

It was such an accurate way to describe the man. "Thank you," I burst out, offhandedly.

Regan's brow furrowed. "Whatever for?"

"For being honest with me."

"Can't lie to a werewolf."

"But an Elf is too polite to call you out on it. No, you respect me enough to tell me the truth, so thank you."

"You're welcome then, I suppose." He grinned, and finally—_finally_—it reached his eyes. "I think Brynjolf made the right choice with you—even if you are an Elf."

I put my hands on my hips, pressing my heels into the ground. "And what is _that _supposed to mean?"

Regan held his hands up, palms out. "Among many, many other things that make your relationship odd, you do realize your children will be the _strangest _things ever?"

"What, blue-skinned and redheaded? Congratulations, you've just described my aunt."

Regan was just shaking his head. He (wisely) subverted topics. "The actual reason I came out here, though, is Aela. She sent me out here to tell you that she can smell a storm on the horizon. Says it'll be here by midnight. If you want to summon your Lord, Dovahkiin, now's the time."

The atmosphere shattered as though I'd broken a mirror. "Tell her I will be ready."

We fell into step easily enough, though Regan's stride was actually much longer than mine thanks to the fact that he was at least a foot taller. Nords are such a ridiculously tall race. Them, and Altmer.

I spared a backwards glace to Talos before facing forward again. There was no time for sentimentalities—I had a Daedric Lord to summon.


	81. Lord of the Shivering Isles

**So this chapter was giving me trouble. It didn't particularly want to be written. But, I managed to twist some arms and get it out here :) As always, a big thank you to all you wonderful readers, lurkers, and reviewers. :) You guys rock my socks. If I were wearing any.**

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**Onward.**

**-)**

Even as the winds tore at our faces and lighting cracked the skies, a small knot of people gathered in the Jorrvaskr training yard—the Twins and Aela, Brynjolf and Karliah, Ondolemar and Ravyn, and Tolfdir and Brelyna. The Nords all watched with a mixture of fascination and consternation as I readied the ritual. Why so many people? Daedra love a crowd.

"How does one summon a Daedric Prince?" Tolfdir asked no one in particular, clearly uneasy.

"Depends on the Prince," Karliah answered. "I know for the Lady Nocturnal, all one has to do is invoke her with the proper words, and she'll come. Hopefully."

"Lord Hircine requires a totem," Aela piped up. The Twins shushed her.

"Boethiah requires a sacrifice in blood," Ondolemar murmured. He hastened to add: "I watched Neva do it." at the looks he was getting.

"Ever heard the phrase, 'dance with the Daedra in the pale moonlight?'" I called, silencing the gathered warriors.

"Merciful Talos…" Brynjolf muttered, clapping a palm to his forehead.

The grin I flashed them was downright wolfish. "You want to walk with the MadGod? You've got to dance with him first." I paused, remembering something. "Karliah, would you be so kind…?"

She nodded. "Of course, cousin. I will go find some war paint."

The non-merish bystanders watched in fascination as I readied myself for a summoning. First, off came my boots and my bracers, and down went my hood. In their stead came the bone chimes—bracelets and anklets I'd made from the knucklebones of dragons—keeping a steady rhythm as I moved. The eerie clacking echoed against Jorrvaskr, against the cliff supporting the Skyforge.

Karliah reappeared in a moment, a jar of war paint in hand. She then proceeded to paint the proper runes of invocation down my face. They were tiny Daedric letters, drawn with her little finger to ensure precision. I muttered the proper invocation for Sheogorath and she transcribed them, praying that they were written correctly. If they weren't, shit would _really _hit the fan.

With the runes making a line from temple to jawbone, I rose to my feet and crossed to the middle of the training yard. I drew the Elven dagger from my boot and called to Aela: "Shield-Sister! How far is the storm?"

The wind had been kicking up, making my bone-chimes rattle, and the subtle shift in the air was becoming obvious to my spirit wolf. "Not far at all," she called back.

"Why are we standing around in a storm, again?" Vilkas muttered to his brother.

"Because," I called to my Soul-Shield, having heard him clearly through the Blood, "though most Daedric Princes have set summoning days, Sheogorath may be summoned any time there is a storm."

"I shudder to think of the logic in that," Brynjolf commented dryly.

"Logic?" I scoffed. "Who said anything about logic? This is magic."

"Aren't they interconnected?" Brelyna asked, her brow furrowed.

"The magic you do, aye. Restoration and Conjuration and Destruction and all the rest come from the god of magic and logic, Julianos. But the magic of the Daedra? No, that comes from something else. Something much older."

Aela's nose twitched, even in her human form. "Here it comes!"

"Take cover!" I barked to my friends, who quickly scrambled to find some sort of shelter. Ondolemar and Brelyna disappeared inside—they had agreed to watch over the setting of the runes, but no more. Neither wanted to face a Daedra, and I wasn't going to make them.

That's when the first roll of thunder boomed across the sky.

I felt the vibration in my ribcage, the crackle of electricity in my nerves as lightning cracked all around me. This was a violent storm, the sort that leaves hundred-year-old trees felled in the woods and rivers swollen yards past their banks. This was the sort of storm during which I was born. This was the sort of storm that summoned Sheogorath.

"Lord Sheogorath, I call upon you!" My voice was lost in the winds, the Daedric coming out dark and harsh. As the rain began to pelt the flagstones, I made the ceremonial slash across my palm. My blood—blood of the Morwyns, the Indorils, the Stormcloaks—fell to the ground, mingling with the rain. (I remembered, faintly, I used to wince at that part, at the pain and the blood. Funny, now it didn't even sting.) The bone-chimes rattled in the wind, and I picked up the rhythm of the dance from there.

It didn't get much more traditionally Dunmeri than a Dance of Summoning. The balletic steps had been driven into my brain from such a young age, I didn't even have to think—I just _did. _I slid through the movements with a serpentine grace, the bone-chimes rattling something fierce. All the while, I chanted the Daedric written down my face: "Lord of the Shivering Isles, I defend you, I honor you—do you do the same for me? Do you hear me?" I reached the final movement and the bone-chimes fell uncharacteristically silent.

The rain was pounding Nirn now, as though it had a personal grudge against the land. Lightning sprawled against the black sky, as though written by Akatosh's own hand. And thunder boomed like the Thu'um.

"Aye lass," came a smoothly accented voice from over by the Skyforge. "I hear you. And can I just say, for a creature so tiny, you've got a mighty powerful voice."

"I get that a lot," I said automatically. Karliah and Ravyn snickered—everyone else winced collectively.

Lord Sheogorath stood leaning against the door to the Underforge, calm as you please. He was, as always, dressed in elegant motley, but his trademark cane had been traded out for the infamous Wabbajack (which, coincidentally, was supposed to be under lock and key at my home in Windhelm…). I lowered my head in a Dunmeri bow, and out of the corner of my eye, saw Karliah and Ravyn do the same. "Milord," I began, "I…"

"I know why you've called me, mortal," Sheogorath interrupted, tilting my head up to face him with fingers that were strangely warm, given how cold it was outside. "You want to know what's going on in your head." He tapped my forehead. "And I can tell you—you're not mad, not yet. All it'll take is another push, but frankly, my dear Dragonborn Champion, you don't have the time for it. No, lass, you're Nord—you're human. You don't have very long at all, do you?"

"No, I'm afraid." I paused to try to come up with a faintly political way to say what came next.

"Whatever you're thinking, just spit it out, lass. You're making my teeth itch."

"So why have you interrupted my mind with Mercer's?" Sheogorath's face showed no recognition. "You know, the mad Breton who used to run the Thieves Guild?"

"Oh, he's not mad either." The King of Madness waved me off. "Far from it. He was _tired—_that's why his darkness won. And that wasn't even me this time, you know. Wasn't even Nocturnal. There was quite the scuffle when _I _found out—one to move mountains and mount movements, I should say!"

My brow furrowed. "So if it wasn't you, who was it?"

"Who, indeed?" laughed the Mad King, the King of the Mad. "Perhaps it was my crazy sister—the batshit _crazy _one… Ha! Her children worship her in _blood! _Who _does _that!?" His voice cracked an octave higher, just like Cicero's did. "And they call _me_ mad! Most of us just enjoy having a bit of fun with you mortals—who doesn't love cheese?—but her? No. She writes her history in blood."

My mind was reeling. "You're telling me _Boethiah _sent those memories to me?"

"Maybe it was, and maybe it wasn't. Perhaps she changed her mind before it changed her. But she lives her life as Prince of Plots, eh? As Queen of Betrayal and Treachery. And who's betrayal and treachery nearly killed you?"

The rain that pelted my face as it went slack in shock stung even more than before. "Mercer Frey."

"No lass, closer to home."

"_Neva."_

"Aye! Neva! Now _that _one's going to the Isles when she dies! I'm thinking Duchess of Mania…? No, Dementia. No, _Mania_. Dementia…? Bah, I don't remember which is which."

"Shouldn't you know?" Aela called out as respectfully as she could manage, sounding confused as all get out.

"Oh, I can't keep it straight." The Lord of Madness waved her off, and then turned back to me. "As for you, Tiberia, since you're so incredibly dense when it comes to legend, it looks like I'm going to have to spell this out for you! …I couldn't quite possibly borrow your entrails for a moment, could I?"

"Ah, no Lord Sheogorath. I'm afraid I need those."

"Bah, mortals. Always trying to keep their entrails on the _inside. _How _boring_." He shook his head. "Let's see if I can't do this the way Hjalti would…"

"Hjalti?" Vilkas repeated, sounding shocked. "That's… that's Talos' Nord name."

"Of course it is! What else would I call him? These Dragonborn, I tell you, they're all mad! Absolutely mad—I love it. And this one…" Here he squeezed my shoulder in demonstration. "…is no different from the others, really—except in the ways that she is."

"I'll keep that in mind," I said, glancing over to the god on my shoulder.

"As you should, lass." Sheogorath released my shoulder with one final squeeze, and then, suddenly, barked, "You there—Nord! Introduce yourself, the long way."

Vilkas' brow furrowed, but even he does as asked when Daedra get involved. Especially when said Daedra is using the Wabbajack as a pointer. "I am Vilkas of the Companions, son of Jergen, Harbinger-Regent."

Sheogorath pointed out a new target. "And you, lad. Go on."

Brynjolf was just as confused as Vilkas, but also just as wise. "I am Brynjolf of Falkreath, son of Ceylon, Second-in-Command of the Riften Thieves Guild."

"And you, lass…" He called out yet another of my friends. "Introduce yourself, mortal. The long way."

"I am Karliah," she said without skipping a beat, "House and Great House Indoril, daughter of Dralsi, House Hlaalu and Great House Indoril. I am known as the Crescent Moon Nightingale, Agent of Nocturnal, and Senior Member of the Riften Thieves Guild."

"And you, Tiberia," said the Daedric Lord, turning to face me once more. "Introduce yourself the long way."

"Are you joking? We'll be standing here until next Loredas!"

"Do it."

I sighed, then drew in the breath so my voice didn't shake. "I am Tiberia, House Morwyn, House Stormcloak, Great House Redoran, Daughter of Acacia, House Indoril, House Morwyn, Great Houses Redoran and Indoril, and Ulfric, House Stormcloak. I am known as Dovahkiin and Dragonborn, as well as Ysmir, the Dragon of the North; Champion of Azura, Meridia, Peryite, Malacath, Vaermina, Mephala, Sheogorath, Hermaeus Mora, Molag Bal, Sanguine, Hircine, Clavicus Vile, and Mehrunes Dagon; the Full Moon Nightingale, Agent of Nocturnal; Thane of the Pale, Eastmarch, Haafingar, Whiterun, Hjaalmarch, and Falkreath; General Stormblade of the titular Rebellion; Harbinger of the Companions, Guildmaster of the Riften Thieves Guild, and Arch-Mage of the most esteemed College of Winterhold; Blood-Bond to Avalon, House Morwyn, Great Houses Redoran and Dres, known as Handmaiden to Mephala and Listener of the Dark Brotherhood."

I could practically feel the stares upon me. "There's a reason I don't do it the long way," I shot over in the general direction of the onlookers.

"No joke," Farkas muttered.

"You, Nord!" Sheogorath said to Farkas, not to be outdone by my long-winded introduction. "If you had one word to describe yourself, what would it be?"

"Strength," said Farkas automatically.

"And your brother?"

"Honor," Vilkas said.

To Tolfdir. "You, old man?"

"Mentor."

To Brynjolf. "And you?"

"Tradition."

"And you there, lad, Dark Elf. What if you had one word?"

Ravyn blinked in shock. "How could I describe myself in _one _word? It's impossible."

"It's not," Sheogorath countered easily enough, resting his weight on the Wabbajack. "If it were, these Nords wouldn't be able to do it. So why can't you? I ask you to introduce yourself, and you can rattle off every title you've ever held, but ask an elf to be concise? Ha! You'd have better luck convincing that git Jyggalag to loosen up! There's a reason Malacath is more popular at parties—and Malacath is _not _popular at parties!"

"God of misfits, and I can only imagine why," Karliah murmured.

"See Nords," Sheogorath continued unperturbed, "never want to visit the Isles. But why wouldn't you? They're such a horribly _wonderful _place to be! Aye, Tiberia, that reminds me, I still owe you a strawberry torte; I haven't forgotten. These Nords are so _boringly _sane! …Well, except Pelegius. I had a lovely vacation in his mind not too long ago…"

"Uh, Lord Sheogorath…?" I ventured uneasily, quite fond of my entrails but unwilling to linger in this storm longer than necessary.

"Oh, right!" He snapped his fingers, and an Everscamp popped out of an Oblivion portal just above the wall surrounding the training yard. The MadGod looked about as shocked as the rest of us at its appearance. "Err, ignore that. But you'll be wanting the point, wouldn't you? Did I have one of those? I think I did…" He paused, scratching at his head. "Ah, right. You, lass…" He tapped my forehead again. "…have two halves—never mind the beasts in you—and you know this very well, do you not?"

I nodded. "The Dunmer and the Nord."

"Aye! And even past the obvious, physical differences… do you know what that did to your mind? Do you know why I claimed you?" If it was possible for a Daedra who thoroughly enjoyed skipping rope with mortal entrails to sound compassionate, Sheogorath was edging towards it. When I shook my head, he continued, "It had nothing to do with you being Dragonborn—that was just blind luck, as it happened. No, I claimed you as I claim all Halflings from such incongruous elements—you'll lose your minds without me."

"You claim all Halflings, Lord Sheogorath?" Ravyn asked quietly.

"Not all," he admitted, "just the ones whose minds would be torn apart by their very natures. And yet they stray from the Golden Road so often… Don't they realize it's the only way they'll live? It's a bitter mercy, true, but a mercy nonetheless." He shook his head. "The reason you're going mad, my dear Dragonborn Champion, is that you can't balance your two halves. And even I can't help you with that, I'm afraid."

It made about as much sense as anything else did these days. "So what does Mercer Frey have to do with any of this?" I asked. "That is, if he _is_ yours."

"Part of him is mine," Sheogorath admitted, then a mad smile crept across his face. "But as for why… perhaps he should just tell you himself. Nocturnal!" He shouted up into the heavens. "If we could borrow your _friend_ a moment, that would be most kind."

An Oblivion portal popped into existence at the edge of the training yard, near the path leading to Whiterun. Several ravens burst forth as Nocturnal's smooth voice boomed, "Oh, I _suppose…" _And out of the swirling purple-and-black mists of Oblivion rose a figure we never thought we'd see again.

A blue ancestor ghost, dressed in the armor of a Higher Operative of the Guild, slipped out of the portal. The shimmering apparition lifted its head to glance about the training yard, and let out a short, perfunctory, "Hi." in the same gravelly, barking voice that had ordered us around the Cistern all those years.

Almost without thought, Karliah drew her bow and nocked an arrow, even as Brynjolf reached for the dagger in his boot. "He's an ancestor ghost," Ravyn warned them in a deep undertone. "You can't hurt him, now. Not really."

Mercer's eyes met mine, the ghostly version of his gaze losing none of its characteristic sharpness. But something unspoken passed between us. I suppose that's what happens when you share personal memories with someone you hardly know. The rain fell not quite _through _him, as it would a standard ghost, but more seemed to be refracted through the phantasm standing before him.

"Go on, lad." Sheogorath broke the moment, thwacking Mercer in the back of the knee with the non-magical end of the Wabbajack (and somehow actually connecting). "Tell her."

Mercer edged away from the Wabbajack, rubbing the back of his knee and muttering under his breath a moment before speaking up. "I suppose I should begin by saying that loaning you my memory, elfling, was the beginning of my penance—which, Nocturnal informs me, I will be lucky to be halfway finished with by the Sixth Era."

"Sounds too light to me," Brynjolf growled. Ravyn laid a hand on the famously short-tempered Nord's shoulder, no doubt muttering, 'easy, easy…'

"But even more than that," Mercer continued, ignoring Brynjolf, "is because I never did it in life, and I should have." All of Mercer's characteristic sharpness, flippant sarcasm, and callousness seemed to have fallen away in his death. Now he just sounded exhausted. "A storm is brewing, Dragonborn. It's on the horizon, and you can feel it. I _know _your wolf can sense it.

"A time is coming soon, Dragonborn, when you will have to make a choice. You make the right one, and past wrongs will be erased. This borrowed time will cease. Make the _wrong _one, Dragonborn, and you'll end up like me.

"You saw it. You _felt _it. How far we can fall. How _easy _it is. I…" Sigh. "I wish I could have told you in life. I wish there were a way to _warn _you then, because now I fear it may be too late. The die may have already been cast."

"What, you didn't want to give yourself away?" I fired back. "Ever think that may have been your _salvation? _That you were being handed another chance? You could have returned the Key, you could have thrown yourself at Nocturnal's feet and begged her forgiveness… you didn't have to die." I drew in steadying breath. "But you didn't. And so you did."

"How did Nocturnal take him at _all, _is my question," Karliah snarled.

"Because the cowardly Mercer Frey," I called to her without breaking eye contact with the man in question, "begged her forgiveness in his last breath."

"Look," Mercer said tiredly, holding his hands up, palms out, "I just saw the parallels. Sheogorath tried to show them to you the _first _time_, _but you didn't get it."

My brow furrowed. "A _ghost_ doing penance until the Sixth Era is calling me stupid."

"I'm calling you _dense," _Mercer snapped. "You think too laterally—all Dunmer do. You break things down to their congruous elements and try to piece them back together. It isn't your fault, it's just how you all are." He cut off my rebuttal before it began with a curt, "You're not the only one who's half human and half elf. Breton, remember?" He tapped his forehead.

Then he sighed, all bravado gone. "Look Dragonborn, you will have to make a choice, and soon. It will not be easy, but if…" He stopped. "If you _can't, _Skyrim hangs in the balance. _Tamriel _hangs in the balance—possibly Mundus. I don't know, these Daedra hardly tell _me_ what they plan."

He drew in a breath then, as though trying to find the strength to stand through this simple act. Thunder boomed overhead, the sound knocking the Oblivion ravens from their perches on Jorrvaskr. "I saw something in you that first day Brynjolf brought you to the Cistern—don't ask me what, I don't know what it is. But there is a fire so deep in you, so interwoven in your soul, that the Key could see it. And I think anyone who looks hard enough can see it."

"_Sunvaarseyollokke," _I murmured. "That's what you saw."

The general question that received was: "What?"

"I don't know what it is, the literal translation is the Beast of Fire and Skies, but that isn't what it means. So unless one of you is fluent in Draconic and I didn't know…?" Everyone—Daedric Prince included—shook their heads no. "Yeah, that's about what I figured."

"Then perhaps. Talos only knows once the _dovah _start getting involved." Mercer's gaze flicked up to meet mine again and there was something there almost akin to pity. "Dragonborn, I don't know what the answers to your life are, but I can tell you that if you aren't strong enough for yourself, this army, these people…" He gestured to the knot of people watching this whole affair. "…and these gods—yours, mine, and Brynjolf's—then everything you ever fought for will be for nothing. Skyrim will fall. It's already falling—you alone can catch it. You know this. You were born for it."

"Is that why you keep calling me Dragonborn?" I asked with a wry smile.

"You denied it once, and it almost broke you," Mercer reasoned. "You denied it twice, and it almost killed you. Deny it thrice… and then what?"

First when I learned of the station, and second when I joined the Guild… but how did Mercer know that? "So if it isn't Sheogorath, and it isn't Nocturnal, who is it?"

Mercer studied his boots for the longest time, not saying anything. Then he said, very quietly—so quietly, I almost lost it beneath the storm, "Me. With your Lord's guidance."

Silence then. As much as can be in a tempest.

"You look tired, Mercer," I observed quietly, as though I were speaking to the living man still.

He glanced to me. "So do you. It's obvious, Dragonborn. You're tired; you don't want to fight anymore."

I bristled at that. "I _live _for the fight."

"Look deeper," he ordered gruffly. "I know you're not good at that, but do it anyway. And you will find, Dragonborn, that you are as exhausted as the man who ran the failing Thieves Guild for twenty-five years." Then his face cracked into a smile, such a rarity for Mercer Frey that I almost missed what he said next. "But you make this choice—you make the right one—and you will know peace, prosperity, and rest."

I blinked, as much from confusion as from the rain in my face. "Since when have you been a seer? Is _everyone _a seer around here these days!? …Ravyn, are _you_ getting visions I should now about?"

"Nope!" called Avalon's battle-buddy back to me. "I am perfectly mortal, thank you!"

Some chortling at that by all. "I'm not a seer," Mercer countered with a snort, "I can just read the writing on the wall. My memory was meant to be a warning to you. You should see parallels. I tried to hit you over the head with them as much as possible…"

I snorted. "You're warning me not to lose my head."

"That," Mercer agreed, "and what else?"

I paused, mulling his memories over. Then it hit me, right between the eyes. "You're telling me to be strong… because you weren't."

Mercer nodded solemnly. "There you go, Dragonborn. Also that you will be a _very_ prosperous Guildmaster, if you do it right."

"Anything else I should know?"

He sighed. "Not you, no."

Instantly, I knew. "Tell her."

He shot me a look. "I lost twenty-seven years ago, Ty. No, twenty-_eight_. It doesn't even matter now."

"It always matters," I said quietly, then I turned to Sheogorath. "Milord, could I borrow the Wabbajack a moment…?"

"Alright, alright!" Mercer barked, instinctively leaping out of my range. "By the Nine, if you aren't the most _infuriating _woman!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sheogorath lean over to Vilkas and ask, "What are they talking about?"

And Vilkas reply, "I haven't the faintest idea."

But Mercer had crossed to the edge of the yard, between the Oblivion portal and where Karliah stood, leaning against one of the poles supporting the roof, halfway out in the rain. "Karliah?" he asked, almost shyly.

She sounded remarkably calm for having drawn her bow on the ghost not too long ago. "Yes, Mercer?"

For another long moment, Mercer said nothing. Even in death, he couldn't get the words out. He glanced to me, who was now holding the Wabbajack in such a way that would easily take out any adventurous knees. He glanced back to Karliah, who now had an eyebrow in her hairline. "Look," he finally got out, "I'm sorry I never told you and that it doesn't change a damn thing now, but…" his next words were the end of an old Aldmeri poem—the rough translation, as it's much prettier in Aldmeris: "Loved you once, love you still. Always have, always will." And because he was Mercer Frey, he didn't stick around long enough to hear a reply, but slipped back through the Oblivion portal without even saying good-bye.

And I was left in a storm holding the Wabbajack and with a lot of things to ruminate.


	82. Hail, Destroyer

**Good news, everyone! :) My Farnsworth impression is greatly improving :p :)**

**But seriously, have a chapter XD and a big thank you to all my wonderful readers, lurkers, and reviewers :) **

**Random side note is random: Anyone else notice how the themes from Morrowind, Oblivion, and Skyrim all have the same musical motif? I noticed that the other day when I fired up Oblivion. Curious…**

**And the non-PM crew:**

**We know: Karliah doesn't seem to me like the hissy fit type, honestly.**

**Stephan: I know, about time, right? :) **

**Onward.**

**-)**

"Damn gutless dogs!" I shouted, slamming my dagger into the table in frustration. "Wars aren't won by milk-drinking nobles!"

The Jarl's war council stood around the table in the upper reaches of Dragonsreach, a map of Whiterun and the surrounding countryside unfurled on the mahogany. My dagger had sliced cleanly through the Throat of the World. Much like before with the Battle of Riften, the odds were not in our favor. And I _hate_ being on the defense. All this sitting around and waiting in Whiterun was jangling my nerves and fraying my mind—last night's episode with Lord Sheogorath was proof enough of that. I hadn't had the time to even begin to properly dissect a meeting with a daedra before I fell asleep. I was rudely awoken this morning by a bucket of cold mead (Farkas' favorite way to make me and/or Vilkas do anything) and dragged up to Dragonsreach for this meeting.

"Easy, Dragonborn," Proventus Avenicci soothed, hands up, palms out. "We all want what's best for Whiterun…"

"I don't think you do," I interrupted, my glance slicing from him to Jarl Balgruuf to Commander Caius to Irileth and back again. "If you did, the war would have been won already, many years ago back when it was as simple as Stormcloaks versus Imperials."

The Jarl folded his arms across his sternum. "We kept a careful policy of neutrality with good reason, Dragonborn. Provoking a sleeping Bear isn't…"

"Neutrality only helps the aggressor!" I thundered, slamming my fist into the table now, given the absence of my dagger. "And I suppose when Ulfric finally _does _show up, you'll want to hold a meeting beforehand! Maybe set out tea and crumpets for the conquering hero? Arrange for a few ladies of the evening to…"

"Not everyone is so eager for blood as you," Commander Caius noted hotly.

I whirled to face him. "Blood gets _results."_

"This is true," Irileth agreed readily enough. "Proven time and time again."

Proventus threw up his hands in frustration. "All these Dark Elves want is blood! By the Divines, it's a miracle their race hasn't been wiped out yet!"

"_You watch your tongue!" _Irileth and I both shouted in unison.

"Furthermore my Jarl," Proventus continued without heed to either said Jarl's General or Housecarl, "I believe it best to dismiss them from this meeting."

"Oh, and I suppose _you _have been in war, know Ulfric Stormcloak's tactics, served as his general for upwards of four years, and know how to defeat him, Proventus."

"So why haven't you?" Balgruuf asked pointedly.

I shot him a look as I yanked my dagger free of his table. "I've been too busy arguing with bureaucrats!"

"Too busy liberating other people's belongings is more like it," Commander Caius scoffed.

I leveled a _dovah_-worthy glare on him as I sheathed my dagger in my boot, saying nothing. I waited until he began to squirm until I stated, with a razor-edged calm, "Even your beloved Tiber Septim needed an army to unite Tamriel. Even the self-proclaimed high-and-mighty Ulfric Stormcloak refuses to face me alone. Do you know why?"

"Tell us, o _wise_ one," Proventus cracked sarcastically.

I leveled them all in a crimson-edged stare. "He knows he'll die."

"What makes you think you wouldn't?" Jarl Balgruuf asked in all seriousness.

"Am I yet still alive after everything this country has thrown at me?" I asked, spreading my arms wide. For once, I received no rebuttal. "Men like Ulfric Stormcloak, Tiber Septim…" I glanced pointedly at Proventus. "…at heart, they're weak. They call themselves men, but in truth, they are not much more than boys."

This statement, of course, caused an uproar from such devotees of the Divines. "How dare you…!" began Commander Caius, only to be shushed by the Jarl.

"Let her speak, man," Balgruuf cautioned. "The day we censor ourselves is the day we lose to the Thalmor.

"But Sir…!" Proventus began.

"Shut it, man. Let the lady speak. What prompts you to say this, Tiberia? It isn't spite; you're greater than that."

I stared down the lot of them. "Because men are flawed, dear Jarl. They are selfish, unreliable, uncaring, lying little bastards, and they will do all they can to break you—heart, mind, body, and soul."

And I left them there to puzzle out what I meant.

My nerves were beyond frazzled as I trekked down the stairs to Dragonsreach. The sun was high on day in early Frostfall, and I realized, we'd been in Whiterun almost a month, now. No wonder I was in such dire need of something to fight. And lucky for me as I rounded out the stairs to the Gildergreen Plaza, I got one.

"You'll make a fine rug, _cat," _sneered a large, burly Nord. He had a severely underfed Breton woman with him, no doubt was a master of magic. Both wore Imperial-style garments. _Legionnaires. Have to be._

"This one does not want trouble," a tawny-furred Khajiit man stated, holding his paws at the level of his eyes. "This one is not here for war, yes?" A young Bosmer boy clung to the Khajiit's leg with his pale gold eyes wide as saucers.

"We don't let you into the city for a reason _cat," _snapped the Breton woman as magicka crackled to life at her fingertips. Of _course_ it was sparks. "Now turn out your pockets!"

"But he hasn't even touched you!" squeaked the Bosmer.

"Shut up, Little Elf," the Nord growled. "Or we'll skin you next."

I had heard more than enough. "And just _what _do you think you're doing?!" I called as I made my way across the Plaza.

The Nord evidently recognized the Dragonborn. "This cat just pickpocketed my friend, here!" He gestured from the Breton to the Khajiit and back again.

I folded my arms across my sternum. "The Thieves Guild is living in this city and you blame a random theft on a wandering Khajiit with a Bosmer orphan? Interesting." I bit off the word. "I assume you have evidence of the crime?"

I almost missed what he said because at that moment, my Blood-Bond tattoo let off a painful twinge. This wasn't uncommon when Avalon got upset or angry, as that was what it was designed for, but this wasn't the usual spasm born annoyance or anger. This was more like cramps. Bigger, badder. Born of something much more worthwhile to be angry with. _Merciful Meridia, Avalon's really pissed at something. I do not envy the target of her ire. _It also reminded me—_gods_, I missed my sister!

"…And he was the only other person in the plaza!" the Nord finished.

I shot him a look, willing my face to remain impassive through the pain in my leg. "Or perhaps just the only other person you _saw." _I snorted. "If you're the best the Empire can come up with, no wonder they're losing the war."

That lit a fire under the both of them. "And I suppose it _can't _be a Mer race, could it, _Dark Elf?"_ the Breton snapped.

I saw the Nord's roundhouse long before it connected with my face. I caught his arm mid-flight, twisted it back behind his head, and then a fight broke out in earnest. And by the _Nine_, did it feel good! These two weren't trained particularly well in Hand-to-Hand, and I warded off the Breton's spells easily enough. After a particularly hard-backed stomp kick to her stomach, she lost control of her magicka and reverted to the Dwarven dagger in her boot.

I countered with the Orcish one that had been mine since Bryn and I more-or-less traded daggers. By now, the Khajiit was in the fray, his claws unsheathed, and snarl feral. The little Bosmer was hiding behind the Shrine to Talos a few feet behind us. I left the Khajiiti man to deal with the Breton while I put my full attention into the Nord. It was long before I had him in a headlock, my hands positioned in such a way that would make it easy to deep fry his head with the right magicka.

"Get out of here," I hissed to him. "And if I ever see your face again, I'll cut it off." I released him, and he stumbled into one of the benches, jamming the edge into his hip in a way that was obviously painful.

He scuttled off, the Breton woman right behind him (never did find out what that Khajiit did to her). It was then that I could turn my attention to the Khajiit and the Bosmer. "Are you alright?" I asked, extending a hand to the Betmer that had recently taken up residence on the floor.

"This one thanks you, Dark Elf," he said, accepted the hand up. "I could never have fought them on my own and walked away."

I nodded and padded over to where the little Bosmer crouched behind Talos' hammer. "Greetings, Brother Elf," I addressed him, dipping into the shallow bow Wood Elves used to greet one another.

He returned it, but said nothing, instead preferring to cling to the hammer.

"Do not think too much of it," the Khajiit said to me, even as he offered a paw to the little Bosmer. "The little one does not speak much. Though… how did you know he was an orphan?"

I shrugged. "Why else would a Khajiit be dragging around a Bosmer child? But what brings you to Whiterun?"

"True enough, I suppose. As for the second question, this one's caravan picked up the little one on the road from Cyrodiil. There is an…" he paused, looking for the word in Tamrielic. "…orphan-house in Skyrim, yes? This one just does not know which city."

"Aye," I agreed, "there's an orphanage in Riften. But you don't want to send him there if you can avoid it—few walk out of there unscathed."

"What makes you say such things?" the Khajiit asked worriedly, but he broke into a feline smile as he glanced down to find his young charge. "Ah, take a look, he has found your kinship."

I glanced down to find the little Bosmer attached to my good leg. "Thank you, Sister Elf," he said in a shaky, little boy's tenor.

I patted his head in a semi-awkward manner as I said to the Khajiit, "Riften is no place for children, I'm afraid. Is there no room for him in your caravan, sera?"

He shook his head. "The roads of Skyrim are no place for children." Hard to argue with that logic. "But where does one go without parents? In Elsweyr, he would be put to work on a Moon Sugar farm, but here? This one does not know."

Vilkas would know what to do with the child. "I am Harbinger Tiberia Morwyn of the Companions," I stated as a preface, "If you would come with me, I'm sure one of my Shield-Brothers or –Sisters will know what to do. They're all Nords, just about."

The Khajiit man bowed in deference to my higher station. The effect was rather undermined by the little Bosmer stuck to my leg, I'd say. "Let us go, then."

In my defense, I've burst through the doors of Jorrvaskr with stranger tidings, but this was definitely right up there with the time I came in covered head-to-toe in troll fat and Hagraven Feathers (don't even ask). The little Bosmer refused to let anyone hold him but me by this point. I found it strange—the Khajiit (Ja'Rak was his name) had raised him as of late, and Niruin was a full-blooded Wood Elf—but Elvish children are known to be strange, particularly when not raised around other elves.

"…Surely there's _something _to be done, other than chucking him in Honorhall," I argued with my Master-of-Arms. "You and Farkas weren't."

"Aye, but that was different," Vilkas began, folding his arms across his broad torso. "We were…"

"Nords?' I interrupted flatly.

"I wasn't going to say that!" His silvery-grey eyes widened—pinned under his own words. "I was going to say, we were the sons of a Companion. This little one…"

"This one's not a warrior," I interrupted, "that isn't my question. Wood Elves never are."

"Truth!" Niruin called.

"My question was," I continued, balancing the child better on my hip, "all the connections the men in this room have, and _nobody _knows someone who needs an apprentice?"

"Why are you so against putting him in Honorhall, anyway?" Njada piped up. "It's an _orphanage. _That's what it's for."

I shot her a look. "I just don't want the kid to end up like Mercer—or worse, Delvin."

The entire Guild cracked up at that, but Delvin let off an affronted "HEY!"

"No, the lass is right," Aisling said. "We can't, in good conscience, put anyone in Honorhall anymore…"

"Never _could," _Delvin commented dryly.

"… And the Khajiit can hardly look after him for an extended amount of time," Aisling finished, ignoring the aging Breton for the moment.

"Has he shown an affinity for the arcane arts?" Faralda asked Ja'Rak.

"The what?" he asked, clearly lost. Poor thing probably only spoke Ta'agra until recently.

"Magic," I said before Faralda had the chance to condescend. "Has he shown an affinity for magic?'

"No more than any other elf, this one thinks…"

I missed the back half of his statement when the Blood-Bond poured fire into my side. I bit back a gasp of pain and pressed my hand firmly into my hip, right above my tattoo. Vilkas observed me with a confused look in his eyes—he knew what lay there beneath my armor. And even if he hadn't, the shock was surely redoubling across our bond. The Little Bosmer on the other hip observed me through wide eyes of pale gold. He couldn't have been older than four or five.

"Quick little guy, is he?" Vex commented drily. "Sounds like a thief in the making, 'ey Niruin?"

"I do believe the last time we let children into the Guild early, all hell broke loose, Vex."

"When was the last time you let a child into the Guild?" I called out.

"Fourteen years ago!" Niruin shouted back. "Some little red-headed s'wit kept getting underfoot so Mercer inducted him early!"

Brynjolf was howling with laughter. "That 'little redheaded s'wit' became your superior, Little Elf."

"Niruin!" Karliah sounded appalled, and she clapped her hands over the elfling's ears. "Watch your tongue! And Brynjolf, you should know better as well! You're courting Tiberia; she swears like a _sailor, _especially in Dunmeris!"

"Don't insult the sailors!" Farkas interjected. "'Tis a noble profession!"

"Don't try to sound like an elf, dear," Aela told him, slamming a palm into her forehead. "Just don't."

I shook my cousin off. "People, _please. _We have a…"

"How old is he, Tiberia?" Regan asked, folding his arms across his torso.

"I'd say around four or five, given that…"

"I'm four and a half," the little Bosmer proclaimed proudly.

Even I had to crack a smile at that. "And do you have a name, Brother Elf?"

"Faldil," he said quietly.

"And why were you wandering the roads of Cyrodiil at four-and-a-half, Faldil?" Ja'Rak asked, not unkindly.

Faldil quickly hid his face in my shoulder padding, unwilling to answer. "My bet is Thalmor," I said to the room.

Faldil nodded into my shoulder. "Big scary wizards in black robes," he said.

"They took _over _Valenwood," Niruin said in a voice dripping with disgust.

"Doesn't mean they're kind to their friends," I reminded him. "Need I remind you the location of Elenwen's head?"

"He's not much older than my son," Regan observed, getting us back on track. He stroked his beard in thought. "The Clan would be willing to look after him, at least until the end of the war and we can figure out where to go from there."

"Aye, true enough," Aisling agreed. "Especially if Brynjolf's about to bring an elf into the Clan, anyway."

'Ty's a Dark Elf; that's a Wood Elf," Brynjolf reminded his cousins. "They're hardly the same thing."

I faux-sniffed at that. "I'm so proud of you."

"Good enough reasoning for the Chief, though," Regan told him.

"Wonderful," I said, wincing through the pain shooting up my side from the Blood-Bond. "I'll go take him to Falkreath myself."

"Nice try, Dragonborn," Vilkas said. "But you're not leaving Whiterun. Too damn important."

"Vilkas!" Karliah exclaimed. "_Language!"_

She went unheeded. "I'll be fine," I said. "Besides, Ulfric's far enough away that I…"

"And if he decides to break away and attack you on the road, you're good as dead," Aela retorted. "Think about what you're putting at risk, Shield-Sister."

"I'm actually with the Companion on this one," Vex said calmly. "You're the last person who should be travelling right now, Tiberia."

"That isn't what her Blood-Bond is saying," Vilkas murmured.

"How bad is it?" Ondolemar asked, padding over to where I stood with the little Bosmer still in hand.

I winced. "Getting worse. Never been this bad before, or for this long. Avalon must be absolutely _pissed."_

His brow furrowed. "How bloody angry can the woman be?"

Karliah threw her hands in the air. "Oh I give _up!"_

"Khajiit will take the little one to Falkreath," Ja'Rak piped up. "It is another of our outposts. The armies do not bother us on the roads—too weak and unimportant."

"Take this," Aisling said, unslinging a kerchief of Clan tartan from around her neck—forest green and rusty red—and handing it to the Khajiit merchant. "Tell them Regan and Aisling sent you, show them that. You should be fine."

"Regan and Aisling," the Khajiit repeated.

She nodded. "Aye, that's it."

Ja'Rak bowed low. "This one thanks you all." He padded over to where I stood and extended a paw to the elfling. "Come now, little one."

The little Bosmer was reluctant to let me go, but eventually allowed himself to be drawn away by the Khajiit. The assembly in Jorrvaskr went back to its daily business. I padded downstairs, looking to find Sapphire to brew me some painkillers for the building pain in my side. Instead, I found Cynric Endell sitting on one of the whelps' beds, running resin over his bow to keep it supple. "Hey, Guildsister," he greeted. "That was a good thing you did, Ty. Honorhall would've eaten that kid alive."

"Hero to the people, and all that." I smiled back weakly, then remembered something. "By the way, Cynric, do you remember the dream diving we did just after my trial?"

He nodded. "I think so. Coward, murderer, betrayer, kinkiller, right? Or was it Kingkiller?"

"Aye, that's the one. Though… I always thought it was kinkiller… I might have been hearing it wrong."

"What about it?"

"It came back the other night," I replied with a shrug, "and I got to thinking, and realized something. We were wrong."

A slow grin spread across the Reachman's face. "I told you divining was an imprecise art—also that I was pretty sure you were doing it wrong. Dreams are never so self-depreciating as your interpretation."

"It was _your _interpretation, first off."

Cynric cracked a real smile, and set his bow off to the side, gesturing for me to take a seat. "Alright then, Tiberia, _now _what do you see?"

I snorted as I lighted down next to him. "Coward, murderer, betrayer, kinkiller? I'm not the coward—my mother is, for never telling me about my bloodlines. I'm not the murderer—Cyrano is; he killed the coward. I didn't betray Mercer, he betrayed the Guild, and therefore me. And I should think that's self-explanatory. And that makes Ulfric the kinkiller. He who marches against his own daughter in a war driven by lust for power."

"You know," Cynric said, meeting my eyes, "if the last thing you've been hearing is Kin_g_killer, then…"

I never heard the end of his sentence—searing pain shot out of the Blood-Bond, burning into my blood. I cried out in pain as I lost my balance and toppled to the floor. I heard Cynric call out in alarm behind me as the world went black.


	83. Thicker Than Water

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**-)**

The pain was astounding when I awoke, absolutely astounding. The Bond never hurt so much before. I came to in the Harbinger's quarters with Colette Marence standing over me, her hands aglow with Restoration magic. Her reedy voice lighted down on my conscious mind: "…And I don't know what this Blood-Bond magic is, but if it's powerful enough to knock out a dragon, I'd venture a guess that it's not something to trifle with."

I swore blackly in Dunmeris, the words coming out as little more than a grunt. I cracked my eyes open with herculean force and attempted to sit up.

"Whoa!" a firm hand pressed my shoulder down again, too rough and too large to belong to Colette. "Easy there, Dragonborn." It was also a vivid gold.

"Get off," I muttered. I attempted to bring a hand up to brush him away, but my limbs were lead; I couldn't move them.

Ondolemar cocked an eyebrow. "Cynric? Is she always so… ah, _resolute, _in the face of mortal agony?"

"Aye," answered the bowman automatically. "You should have seen the time Mercer stitched her up after her incarceration with your friends the Thalmor—absolutely horrendous injuries, all over. But even in that delirious state, she refused aid. Ingun had to sedate her alchemically before the old bastard could attempt to sew her up without getting his fingers bitten off. I had to shoot the arrow with the paralysis poison on it from clear across the Cistern."

Colette's brow furrowed, and her hands went to her hips. "Why wouldn't someone just cast a paralysis spell?"

Cynric shook his head. "None of the Guild are magicians of that caliber, Madame. Well, except Delvin, but he was drunk."

I laughed weakly at that. "I don't remember any of that."

"Lucky, aren't you?" Cynric commented, lightly acerbic. "You also weren't supposed to."

"Speaking of Ingun, where is that girl?" Ondolemar asked, glancing over his shoulder. "She should be here by now."

Cynric shrugged. "Who knows? Probably off snogging with Vipir."

I winced, and for once, it wasn't from the bond. "Ugh, really?"

The old Breton nodded. "Where have you been?"

"Dragonsreach," I answered, wincing as I drew myself up against the headboard. This time, Ondolemar didn't hinder my progress. "Where are Brynjolf, Vilkas, and Tolfdir?"

Ondolemar shifted from one foot to the other. "Given the number of spies in Whiterun Hold, they thought it best to act as though nothing were wrong," he informed me. "Brynjolf is patching up armor at Adrianne's forge, Vilkas is training those unaccustomed to sustained combat, and Tolfdir is teaching anyone who cares to learn about wards and healing spells."

I nodded. "Good, as they should be."

Colette's brow furrowed. "You would rather no one check up on you?"

I gestured to my Guildbrothers. "I think I'm fine in that department." I drew in a breath, reading myself for the next question. "What time is it?"

"Almost dinner," Cynric answered, and I winced. "You've been out for most of the day."

Ondolemar and I exchanged a look, and I knew what had to be done. "Brother Elf, help me stand," I said in as a commanding a voice as I could muster, and Ondolemar quickly obliged. My bare feet hit the floor, and for once I did not feel the cold. "Cynric, Colette, I thank you both for all you've done. But I need to talk to just Ondolemar a minute."

They both nodded—Cynric with his brow furrowed in confusion—and departed. Ondolemar went to shut the door, and I had to put a hand to the wall to steady myself. I couldn't stand acting like an invalid one moment longer, so standing with help was better than not at all. "What did you feel, Tiberia?" the High Elf asked with quiet urgency. "And have you seen anything?"

"I feel—" grimace. "—pain. And a lot of it. All emanating from… _oh my gods!" _I had glanced down to my hip, where my Blood-Bond tattoo lay hidden under my leggings, normally. I say normally because the intense heat coming off it as of this morning had burned a hole straight through my Guild Armor—perfectly contoured in the shape of the Daedric Letter A.

"Avalon must be furious," Ondolemar murmured. "That, or in grave peril. Oh, it's a _good _thing it knocked you out, Sister Elf, or I don't think even the Companions could have kept you here. And I do believe you'd be good as dead if you had left."

I was feeling utterly helpless again, just like I had when I was a child in Morrowind, where there were too many political machinations and not enough transparency. "I can't just leave her, Ondolemar. I swore I'd _protect_ her. Her fights are mine. Her enemies, mine. Her tragedies, _mine_. Her glories, mine. And vice versa. Until one of us perishes."

My words cut him deep; I could see it in his eyes. "Did you ever think," the Altmer began, choosing his words very carefully, "that the Brotherhood is purposefully putting Avalon in danger to flush you out? You've killed two of their number, and let a third go because you've a good heart. Not good odds, on their end."

It sunk like a stone in my gut, but he was right. "I… I had hoped not. But…"

His smile was wry, but not unkind. "I know. I don't like the thought, either. But before you go rushing off, you need to consider what you'll be risking."

"My life, as always," I answered swiftly. "Nothing more or less. Besides, I've seen things, felt things. Fire and smoke, ashes and an excruciating amount of pain. Internal, external. Avalon and her bow, on a horse black as night, rushing along the Skyrim countryside. Even now, I can feel the Bond tugging me toward her. This morning, she was north, up by Solitude. Now, it's moving south, due west of here. Probably toward Falkreath, where the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary is."

"Tiberia," Ondolemar said firmly, grasping both my shoulders in a grip strong enough to get my attention, but not strong enough to harm, and leaning just a tad (okay, a _lot) _so that we were at eye level. "Listen to me very closely: you are too damned important to go running off on battle's eve. If I could, I would go in your place in a heartbeat. Surely you know that?"

I did my best to smirk. "For Avalon? I know you would."

Ondolemar flushed a brilliant crimson and let go of my shoulders. "So you remember that?"

I rocked to my good hip, folding my arms across my torso. The Bond Tattoo burned in protest at the exertion. My arms quickly unfolded and the one went to the wall again when I nearly fell over. "Come now, fourteen isn't _that _young. Especially when you consider what my human blood did to me."

Ondolemar bowed his head, not quite in shame, mostly just because of the weight of the implications. "I did try to keep Avalon updated with the happenings on Summerset during your time there—much as I could, anyway. Shame you didn't come find me before you ran off."

"I was under the impression that I was alone out there," I reminded him, but I waved off whatever he was about to say next. "What's done is done, Ondolemar."

"Yes," he agreed, golden eyes far away, "that it is." He snapped back to Nirn. "By the by, Ingun left you a painkilling potion on your table." He gestured to the vial of purple, viscous liquid sitting on my bedside table. "She said it would knock you out cold. It is my most fervent suggestion that you drink it before the pain comes back. You're only in the eye of the storm, and I don't think you'll be able to stop yourself from rushing in. Trust me."

There was a pregnant pause, and in that, I realized something.

"Could I see yours?" I asked quietly.

Ondolemar seemed surprised. "Well… I suppose it's only fair."

He unlatched the clasp holding his Guild cuirass shut at this throat and pulled the whole thing over his head. And then, in the ultimate show of respect and trust for a thief, he turned his back to me. And there on his right side, just below his shoulder blade, was a Daedric Letter O. Only, instead of the rusty, blood red it should have been, this tattoo was a dark ruby color, so deep it was nearly black.

"Who was your Bond?" I asked, breaking the settling silence.

"My twin brother, Oberon," Ondolemar called over his shoulder, "dead these thirty-some years. He was older than me by thirteen minutes, always loved to bring it up. We served together in the Great War. Only I came home."

"And your overseer?"

"Peryite, the Taskmaster." Ondolemar yanked the leather over his head again, latching the top clasp shut again. "I know what it must feel like, Little Morwyn. Like molten lead poured down your side, like a white-hot brand against your skin." He came over to where I stood, gently clapping me on the shoulder. "But whatever you do, don't give in." His golden gaze was so earnest, so pained. "One life is not worth another in a war, no matter what blood they spill. The general comes first."

"Even if that blood is mine own?"

If I didn't know better, I'd say there were tears in his eyes. "Even then."

-)

Ingun was most definitely right about the potion—it drop-kicked me into Vaermina's realm so hard, I was amazed I even woke up at all. But when I did, I was in a haze—a warm, familiarly-scented haze. I couldn't quite open my eyes, couldn't quite deatch fully from the dreamworld. But I knew this scent; it was Brynjolf holding me. His accent had a calming effect, like waves in the sea washing over me. But another, thicker accent was replying, and those waves were harsher, more like the Sea of Ghosts than Niben Bay. Still another accent washed over me, the waves like the clear and blue-green waters between Valenwood and the Summerset Isles in the Abecean Sea, the stresses and cadences somewhat familiar.

Brynjolf must've been sitting with his back against the headboard, holding me much like he had the other day when we'd gone through his journal. Voices began to come into focus, voices I knew. First were the waves from the Sea of Ghosts—the rough accent of northern Skyrim: "…And don't pretend you're here for any reason other than Avalon, Ondolemar."

And the waves from Niben Bay, with the lilt fresh out of Falkreath: "Aye, lad. We're not stupid."

And waves from the Abecean Sea, a cadence crisp and cultured and straight from Alinor: "I won't deny it's _a _reason, but it surely isn't the only one. Believe it or not, High Elves do hold some concept of honor."

"Is that why you're blackmailing an empire?" Brynjolf replied dryly.

Silence, then Ondolemar's crisp retort: "If there's enough to blackmail, that's hardly our fault."

From what I could tell, Ondolemar's voice was coming from over by the door—no doubt he was leaning against the doorframe. Vilkas' filtered over from the general direction of the table and chairs, and Brynjolf's, obviously, rumbled right behind me. Vaermina was beckoning from beyond the veil, and all I really wanted to do was fall asleep, and let these three sort out whatever argument they were having in peace. But then the Blood-Bond awoke, sending bolts of white-hot lighting into my side. I hissed in pain; I couldn't help myself.

I felt Bryn kiss my forehead. "How long until it stops, Ondolemar?"

"I don't know," the Altmeri accent replied quietly. "It depends on what's happening to Avalon. We know she isn't dead—the tattoo would be black if she were."

"It isn't black," Brynjolf confirmed. "Hot as a furnace, though."

"Yeah, that's… that's what happens." For the first time in living memory, I heard a High Elf stutter.

Bryn and Vilkas caught it too. "No one will think any less of you if you leave," Vilkas told him quietly. Then, "And is there a way to shorten your name, Elf? Because the whole thing is a mouthful."

"It would be Mari," Ondolemar answered ruefully. "But I've never cared for it."

Brynjolf chuckled like a teenaged boy with his first war axe. "Sounds like a girl's name."

"And now you see why, _Bryn."_

"I think people are less likely to confuse _him_ for a woman than you," Vilkas commented with a black chuckle. "Mages in robes all start to look the same, after a while."

"Besides," Brynjolf added, "'Jolf' just sounds stupid by itself." Another pause, then, "So what's the elven shortening of Tiberia, then?"

"Not Ty, I can assure you!" Ondolemar laughed. "It would be Beri, actually. Or Ria."

I sensed Vilkas' spirit wolf wrinkle its nose at that. "Those don't suit her at all."

"I agree, the human shortening is much better," Ondolemar replied. "Elfish names were always too… " He paused, searching for the world in Tamrielic. "…well, frankly, too feminine for the littlest Morwyn."

"So what did she call Avalon?" Brynjolf asked.

I heard Ondolemar smile through the answer: "Avalon, I do believe was Lon-Lon, before Tiberia was old enough to get through the full thing. And Neva was always just 'witch.' Well, until dear Ravyn taught the elfling how to swear."

Both the Nords cracked up at that. "You and Ravyn were the closest things she had to brothers, weren't you?" Vilkas asked.

No doubt, Ondolemar nodded. "Ravyn, more so than me. He did his best to look after the little Elfling and keep her away from Neva, but there's only so much outsiders can do. And I was an Outlander, on top of that. I would drop by from time to time under the guise of seeing an old war buddy, but…"

"Why were you in Morrowind so long?" Vilkas interjected. "Well, _officially."_

Ondolemar actually laughed at that. "Officially, I was stationed in Morrowind to keep an eye on Ulfric Stormcloak from a distance. Unofficially, there were a lot of reasons. And _no_, Avalon was not originally one of them."

"Your twin brother?" Brynjolf ventured with remarkable tact.

"Yes."

"I can't imagine losing Farkas," Vilkas commented, sounding very far away. "I just… _can't."_

"Tiberia was a wonderful distraction," Ondolemar admitted. "There is always so much political plotting when an elf is born, especially Dunmer, and especially _female _Dunmer."

"Planning her future before she could even speak," Brynjolf noted, uncharacteristically angry.

"That's the way of it, I'm afraid, Brynjolf. You'll learn."

"What do you mean, _especially _Dark Elf women?" Vilkas asked.

Ondolemar chuckled at that. "It's well-known within the Houses that the men may hold the _political _power, but their women are the ones pulling the strings. Tiberia's mother, the Lady Acacia, had Lord Amory wrapped around her little finger. Lady Neva did it with Cyrano, Karliah with Mercer Frey."

"And Avalon with you?" Brynjolf interjected.

That made Ondolemar pause. "Perhaps a bit. And Tiberia with the two of you."

That elicited a "_Hey!" _from the offended parties.

"Tiberia doesn't do it on purpose," Ondolemar interrupted with the faintest of grins in his voice. "She's the only one in the family to be so honest, actually. It's the Dunmeri way, don't be so offended. Besides, the two of you are remarkably independent, no?" He laughed. "If it were, say, Neva you were courting, you wouldn't be able to _think _without her permission."

"I think you confuse love and power," Brynjolf commented.

"Me? No. Altmer, remember? Dunmer though… they do. At least a bit. I think it comes from communing with Daedra so often."

Another wave of pain crashed into me, eliciting another hiss and making my eyes water.

"Is there nothing to be done for her?" Vilkas asked, only half-expecting an answer.

Ondolemar answered anyway. "Short of allowing Tiberia to follow the pull or killing one of the sisters, I'm afraid not. She will just have to bear through it."

"Easy for you to say," Vilkas retorted, voicing my thoughts.

"Shut it, wolf," Brynjolf snapped at him.

"It's alright, Guildbrother," Ondolemar told him. "It… it was a long time ago." The second stutter in half an hour.

"Ondolemar, if you need to go, then do," Brynjolf told him, sounding more like the man from the Cistern than he had all night. "We'll send for you if something changes. She hasn't awoken yet, so I don't think she will until morning. Ingun brewed some powerful stuff."

"Perhaps it is best if I take my leave," Ondolemar finally admitted. "Do not hesitate to wake me if something changes."

"Aye," said the thief and the wolf, and then a set of lithe, elven footsteps receded, leaving naught but silence in their wake.

Another bolt of pain jostled my side, and I'm ashamed to report it set me whimpering. Brynjolf's fingers absentmindedly tangled and twisted within my hair, which had fallen out of its customary braid (or braids, depending on how industrious I was feeling). And he spoke not a word.

Finally, Vilkas broke their silence. "You know what I just can't figure?"

"The dichotomy of good and evil?" was the curt response.

I felt Vilkas' wolf roll its eyes. "You've been sitting there and holding her the better part of the evening…"

"I know; my leg's asleep."

"…and yet _all_ I can smell in your scent," Vilkas continued through the interruption, "is concern and anxiety."

Brynjolf's reply was much gentler than his previous one. "Some things are more important than your second head, eh?"

"Well yes, but it's _Morwyn!"_

Brynjolf's voice snapped right back to hard-edged again. "I don't need you talking like that about my wife, thanks." He bit off the last word.

"No, I suppose you don't…" Vilkas conceded, then, "You're not married yet, Clansman."

"She isn't coming back to you, Vilkas." The statement was delivered far more gently than it could have been.

"I know, Brynjolf." That statement was delivered a lot less angrily than it could have been. "She's happy with who she is now, with who she's _with, _now. I'm not so selfish as to destroy that. It's taken her years."

Another silence settled over them, and Brynjolf asked, "Why are you here, wolf? Surely you have better things to do."

"Because, thief, the Soul-Bond won't let me leave. Quite literally; look." A chair creaked as footfalls padded over towards the door, becoming slower and fainter until, no doubt, they stopped just before the door. "Go on and try to move me; it won't work."

"I believe you," said the Clansman. The footfalls receded back, the chair creaked once more.

I lost whatever they said next in a fresh wave of pain from the tattoo. Oh, Avalon…

"Ever notice how she always wears her hair up?" Brynjolf commented absentmindedly as his fingers wove in and out of my hair.

"A Lady of the Great Houses always does," Vilkas replied automatically. He'd asked me the same question many years ago. I'd given him the same answer.

"She isn't in Morrowind anymore, though. There's really no reason."

"Habit, then?"

"Actually, now that I think about it…" Brynjolf's hand paused. "….it probably more has to do with the fact that she considers herself Dunmer, but gives in to the Nord more and more every day."

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it, Jergenson. She's a Companion, Thane of seven Holds, courted you, courted me, and we call her Dragonborn, the most revered of our heroes. Maybe she just wants to hold on to a bit of what she was."

"Or maybe it's just a habit."

I heard the thwack of Brynjolf's palm hitting his forehead.

"I'm joking, Ceylonson. You're probably right. You know her better than I do."

"You're attached to her _soul, _wolf."

"And if she didn't feel mine for years without noticing, fat lot of good that ever did anyone, eh? It would be like you losing your fingers, not noticing, and still wearing gloves, so that no one _else _noticed."

A particularly vicious bolt of pain from the Bond Tattoo finally did it. My eyes snapped open, and I sat bolt upright. Wide eyes surveyed the scene—Vilkas, sitting in one of the chairs near the table and Brynjolf behind me, right where their voices had been. "Easy, Ty, easy," Brynjolf murmured, his eyes searching my face for outward sings of internal trauma. "You're safe, here."

"I'll leave you be," Vilkas said, rising from his chair and departing. But not before bopping me on the head, the way Farkas usually did.

Sitting up was too much damn effort; I collapsed against Brynjolf again. "I'm sorry, lass," he murmured to me. "Truly, I am."

"Not your fault," I managed to get out, closing my eyes and nestling against his chest again. "Just… don't let go."

His grip tightened in response. "Never planned on it."


	84. As the Scrolls Have Foretold

**Hey all you readers, lurkers, and reviewers :) As always, a big thank you to you all.**

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**-)**

I awoke the next morning in a tangled heap of armor and blankets. Brynjolf must've finally fallen asleep at some point, because he was out cold. He'd been sitting on top of my fully made bed while talking with Ondolemar and Vilkas, but the blankets had twisted all around us throughout the course of the night. (I'm a notoriously fitful sleeper.) As promised, though, he hadn't let me go. I carefully disentangled myself from the blankets. The Clansman did not stir. He looked so much younger in sleep, with the lines in his face smoothed out and the only hint of hardship the scar on his cheek. (The result of a bar fight, he'd told me once. Raynor had chatted up the wrong girl.)

The Bond Tattoo was quieter now, not so hot. The bolts of fiery vengeance had been reduced to needles of sun-warmed annoyance. I could deal with that. But it worried me for Avalon. My older sister had a tendency to rage like a wildfire, then seeming cool down to ash. But the remaining embers lay buried deep, and burned just as brightly as before. She was calculating something, planning something. Warm, bubbly Avalon Morwyn could be just as frigid and calculating as Neva, if she was of half a mind.

What was she planning, what was she calculating? I sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands, heels pressed firmly to the floor. I worried deeply for my sister. I had already lost one; I was _not_ going to lose the other. The Bond was pulling me back toward Solitude. _Why? Why is she going back to the place that sent her into such a rage?_ Surely it wasn't simple vengeance? _I _was the vengeful sister, after all. And Neva was the calculating one. Avalon was channeling not one sister, but two, it seemed.

I felt a warm hand alight on my shoulder blade, interrupting my thoughts. Its owner came to rest beside me. "Tiberia?" Brynjolf asked, his voice groggy from sleep. "You okay? …Oh, what am I saying? That's a stupid question. Sorry."

I glanced over at him, who was rubbing sleep out of his eyes and stumbling over his words. Bryn never stumbled; he always knew just what to say. That's how I knew this Blood-Bond thing had him spooked. I smiled weakly, a poor attempt at disarming. "I'm better than I was."

"Don't give me elfish half-answers," he warned, sounding more like himself. "If something's wrong, _tell_ me."

"Truly, Bryn. Look." I took his hand and set it over my tattoo, which had cooled from last night's inferno. "Avalon's calming down."

His emerald gaze flicked up to meet my crimson one. "You sound even more worried at that than you did last night."

"Avalon has a tendency to brood," I admitted. "To plot and plan with the best of them."

"She's in _your _family, love. If she couldn't, she'd be dead."

I actually cracked a smile at that. "Truth. But how would you know?"

Brynjolf reddened slightly as he drew back his hand. "Oh, uh… Ondolemar kept vigil with Vilkas and me for a while. He was telling stories to pass the time. I had no idea he was Blood-Bonded."

"I didn't either, until yesterday," I admitted. "Probably because I never knew Oberon."

"Vilkas looked appalled at the thought of losing his twin."

I nodded. "They're very close, Farkas and Vilkas. Sometimes I wonder if Aela feels like an interloper. I know I did."

Silence settled over us for a moment. Then Bryn said, "I think you should check up on Ondolemar. The Bond had him truly scared."

"Too many awful memories, plus Avalon in danger—sweet Talos, I can only imagine why." I made a move to get up.

But Bryn trapped my hand, and I paused, glancing back to him. "I didn't mean _now."_

As much as I wanted to go back to bed, to sleep in safety in his arms, I knew I had other things that needed to be done. "The Beast Blood is singing," I said, only a half-lie, for it always was. "It won't let me rest." Bryn was clearly unhappy with this news, and the dark circles under his eyes belied his own exhaustion. "Go back to sleep, Brynjolf. You look like you could use it. Did you sit up all night?"

"Just about," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "Too worried to sleep."

The corners of my lips quirked up in a smile. "Go to sleep, foolish Nord. I'm all right. It's only pain; I deal in it all the time."

He was too exhausted to argue. I could see it in his eyes. "Where did that epithet come from?"

I smirked. "'Tis the Elven retaliation for 'Little Elf.'"

Brynjolf reached over, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind my ear, revealing the point in the process. "But elves _are_ little. Nords aren't always fools."

"Are you calling Ondolemar little? He's taller than you are."

"But half my size the other way. That's what people mean when they say 'little elf.' Your people are slight. It isn't always meant to be an insult."

"Perhaps," I admitted, "but it reminds you of what you never want to be in Skyrim: insignificant and foreign."

He snorted, and then his facial expression softened. "But you, lass, are neither."

"Of course I am." I blinked in confusion. "I was born in Morrowind."

"But you've the heart of a true Daughter of Skyrim." He tapped my chest, just beneath my collarbone. (Too high for my heart, but gentlemanly nonetheless). "And the blood of Ysgramor in your veins."

"And those I inherited from my father," I replied quietly. When I made the move to stand this time, Brynjolf didn't stop me.

As I was in the middle of pulling on my boots, he added, "Oh, and Ty?"

I paused, mid-buckle. "Yes?"

"You look pretty with your hair down. You should wear it like that more often."

I smiled despite myself. "A Lady of the Great Houses always wears her hair up in the presence of men. Only her brother, her father, and her husband may see her otherwise."

Bryn rolled his eyes. "You Elves and your rules."

I was laughing as quietly as I could as I left my quarters. I padded quietly down the halls of Jorrvaskr, re-braiding my hair as I went and taking stock of myself. I felt gross under my Guild jerkin, having spent the last night in a fever-induced sweat. It was about time I headed to the public bathhouse, I reckoned. I'd see if Aela or Tonilia or someone felt like tagging along later. That wasn't the sort of thing one did alone. But first, I had to check on my Soul-Bond, who was equally disturbed as my Intended.

I pushed open the back doors to Jorrvaskr and found him exactly where I knew he'd be, standing at the edge of the porch and surveying the sunrise with the stance of a soldier. I fell into place beside him, my hands linked at the small of my back, my heels pressed firmly into the ground. I couldn't tell you how many times we've done this, and it's become almost iconic within the Companions—the slightest member and the stoutest, standing identically just before the dawn.

"Hail, Shield-Brother," I greeted.

"Hail, Shield-Sister," Vilkas replied, and then he glanced over to me. "Did you ever get some sleep?"

"A bit, aye." I met his gaze. "As much as the Blood ever allows."

"Fair enough, I suppose. And how are you faring this morning? I see you're walking."

I snorted. "Avalon's calmed down, and so has the Bond." Out of the curiosity that wheedled at me to see what he'd do, I gestured to the tattoo, leaving the invitation open. "It's not so scorching as last night."

Vilkas' gaze flickered down to my hip, where my Bond tattoo sat fully exposed to the frigidity of Skyrim. Then it flicked back up to meet mine. "I'll take your word for it."

At that moment, I knew that whatever became of this war, Vilkas of the Companions would end up all right.

"I don't blame you. _I _wouldn't want to fight Brynjolf, either." We both had a good laugh at that. "So how fares your instruction?"

Vilkas shrugged, his broad shoulders rising and falling like an empire. "Most of those who came to fight for you already knew their way around a sword; it's mostly just been stamina training. Your Guildsiblings aren't meant for sustained combat, really."

"I know they aren't. That's what worries me for them."

"Oh, make no mistake," Vilkas answered swiftly, "they'll be fine for a single battle. Maybe even two. I'm just saying, don't expect a war out of them."

The dovah awoke within me, uncoiling from its long sleep. "I don't intend to make this into more than one battle, friend."

Vilkas' silvery-grey gaze widened. "You plan to end it all now? Kill Ulfric Stormcloak?"

I nodded emphatically. "Also Neva, Galmar, Rulindil, and anyone else stupid enough to get in my way and wear Stormcloak blue or Thalmor black."

Vilkas was shaking his head in disbelief. "I am so _very _glad you're on my side."

I smirked. "You are not the first man to tell me that."

He laughed. "No, I suspect I am not," he conceded. Then he added, with that shit-eating smirk, "By the way, your braid is falling out."

"Is it? Damn." I untied the string at the end of my braid and raked my fingers through the rest of my hair.

As I began to re-section it off, Vilkas commented absentmindedly, "Avalon wears her hair down."

I paused amidst what I was doing. "What?"

"Avalon," he said again, "wears her hair free. Didn't you always tell me the women of the Great Houses of Morrowind wear it up?"

I nodded. "Avalon used to bind it like Neva, or even just braid it like I do. When she left Morrowind, she just gave up, I suppose. She always hated fiddling with it." The string slipped from my fingers as I tried to wind it around the end.

Vilkas stooped to pick it up, and, when he was on his feet again, gestured for me to hold out the end of my (muchly improved) braid. My hair was getting absurdly long, I noticed. It was halfway down my shoulders, now. My Shield-Brother tied off my hair with a neat, utilitarian knot, and then his hands were behind his back again. A moment later, I was the same.

"Do you smell that?" he asked suddenly.

I nodded. "Aye. Smells like death is on the horizon."

"Mmm. Stormcloak and his army are close. I'd be prepared to wager he'll be here within the week."

"About damn time. Do you think he'll attempt terms?"

"He'd be mad not to, Harbinger. You alone could probably decimate his entire army, if you were pissed enough."

"Flatterer!" I accused.

Vilkas glanced over to me, smirking. "But also accurate. And does his host smell… I don't know, strange to you?"

"Not particularly." My brow furrowed. "There are mostly footsoldiers, a few mages." It furrowed deeper. "No, a _lot _of mages. By the bloody Nine, Ulfric must have augmented his regiments with Thalmor Battlemages."

"Is that what that awful smell is?" Vilkas asked. "Explains a lot. Magic always smells… kind of rotten, in a battalion."

"I agree. And it seems like he's got at least one Battlemage a unit." I sniffed again, this time audibly. "Possibly more than one, if someone important is in the unit."

Vilkas winced. "On a scale of Iron Dagger to Daedric Greatsword, how unequipped are we to deal with Thalmor Battlemages?"

"Fork," I answered without hesitation. "Damn, damn, _damn, _this is not good! _Talos, _I need to talk to Tolfdir when he gets up."

Vilkas gestured to the sky. "Jorrvaskr will be waking up soon enough. The sun's up and there's war on the horizon, after all."

I nodded, watching the sun climb higher and higher into the sky. "Lady Azura, Queen of the Night Sky, watch over your faithful, and guard us from the cold sting of night and the fires of day," I murmured, only half-paying attention to the words of the prayer.

Vilkas, mercifully, didn't comment. He knew what dawn and dusk meant to a devout of Azura.

We stood out on the back porch of Jorrvaskr until day truly broke, then delved back into the warmth to sit down to breakfast with the rest of our comrades. The main hall had filled steadily in our absences, and the homey hubbub of chatter ricocheted off the walls. Brynjolf, it seemed, had given up on sleep and was instead in the middle of a good-natured argument with his cousins:

"…I'm just saying, lad, that if you're going to be painting yourself in woad, you might as well just go the rest of the way!" Regan was saying.

"I'm not stupid enough to go into battle without chain mail or tartan," Brynjolf replied swiftly. "Thank you very much."

"Not brave enough, more like," Aisling cracked.

"Wait," I interrupted, unable to help myself, "please tell me you're joking."

Regan shook his head with a smirk. "No, ma'am. The warriors of eld would run into battle stark raving naked."

My eye twitched at the thought. "Why on _Nirn _is that a thing?"

"Because it's intimidating as Oblivion," Aisling replied with a laugh.

"Raynor would've done it," Regan added, nudging Bryn in the ribs.

Something dangerous flashed in Brynjolf's eyes, and the mirth left his face in an instant. "I'm not Raynor."

Regan winced, realizing he'd hit a nerve. "Shit Bryn, I didn't mean it like that."

"Oh, really? How _did _you mean it then?"

Sensing this was not an argument he wanted me to hear just then, I immediately called out, "Tolfdir! There you are! I need to talk to you, my friend!" and padded over to the aging Nord. Brynjolf shot me a grateful look as I passed.

"What's going on, Arch-Mage?" asked my Master Wizard.

I paused in answering when Ondolemar wordlessly pressed a cup of coffee into my hands as he passed. I nodded to him in thanks (and the wolf immediately reached out with its sense of smell to detect poison. There was none). "Thalmor Battlemages have joined the fray."

"I was afraid of that," Tolfdir admitted. "But I knew they would pull something like this. No true Son of Snow would serve Ulfric Stormcloak if he's sided with the very people he swore to drive out of Skyrim."

I snorted. "At least, none that don't already see him as a god."

"True enough, Tiberia," the old man admitted. Then he smiled. "But some see you as one, too. A God of Destruction, but a god nonetheless."

I cocked an eyebrow. "Are you likening me to Alduin, Tolfdir?"

He smiled in a manner more akin to a kindly old grandfather than a master of Alteration. "Only in the sense that I know of the power you wield, deep within your soul."

"It's absolutely hopeless!" I heard someone shout from the other side of the room.

Tolfdir and I turned as one to find Delphine's dagger in the table and the woman herself clearly arguing with Farkas. "We can't win against odds like that!" she added.

"I think you're forgetting who you're dealing with," Farkas reminded in that way of his that was usually disarming. "We've got the Dragonborn, the entirety of the Companions, Masters of Magic from the College, plus a good chunk of soldiers."

Apparently, he was only aggravating Delphine. "And a group of thieves who can't handle themselves in a battle, and a Dragonborn who lets a _tattoo _cripple her! That woman is the _last _one who should be wielding such power. Why hasn't she driven the dragons out of Skyrim? They continue to raze villages, burn the countryside…"

"Not every _dovah _is a demon, Delphine," Vex said sternly. "You sound just as racist as Ulfric Stormcloak."

Delphine shot her a look to temper steel. "Oh, that's right. Tiberia _refuses _to do her duty and kill the one leading the Greybeards—why should she lift a finger to kill the rest of them?!"

"That is _enough…!" _Ralof roared over her.

But the entire room wasn't silenced until it realized I was now standing on the table. How many speeches have I given from up here? Too damn many. (I hate being short.) But this one didn't require my own words. This one required those of the ancient Nords, the Ancestors, those wise ones that came before us—the _Song of the Dragonborn_:

"_Hearken now, Sons of Snow, _

_To an age long ago, _

_And the tale, boldly told, of the one!_

_Who was kin to both wyrm and the races of man_

_With a power to rival the sun!_

_And the Voice she did wield, _

_On that glorious field, _

_When great Tamriel shuddered with war!_

_Mighty Thu'um, like a blade, _

_Cut through enemies all, _

_As the Dragonborn issued her roar!_

_And the Scrolls have foretold _

_Of black wings in the cold, _

_That when brothers wage war come unfurled! _

_Alduin, Bane of Kings, _

_Ancient shadow unbound, _

_With a hunger to swallow the world!"_


	85. Like Daughter, Like Father

**Good news, everyone! Finals didn't murder me-or any of my friends! :D As always, a big thank you to all you wonderful readers, lurkers, and reviewers :)**

**Non-PM crew:**

**We know: Haha my character in Skyrim is either Tiberia herself, or a Redguard I named Xethian. **

**Christy: thank you so much :) I'm glad you enjoy the story.**

**Onward.**

**-)**

In the end, Ulfric Stormcloak rather politely knocked on the door and asked for tea.

Well, not really quite so literally. Apparently, he rode into Whiterun under the White Flag, asking to hold a war council. Jarl Balgruuf was understandably wary, since Ulfric and his retinue came into town armed to the teeth. But a White Flag's a White Flag, I suppose, no matter whom it comes from. And so after being asked to disarm in full view of… well, everyone, the Jarl of Windhelm and his advisors were allowed into Dragonsreach. A runner was then sent to Jorrvaskr to invite General Stormblade to the party. This was four days after the incident with my Blood Bond.

I say 'apparently' because I witnessed none of this. I was asleep, thank you very much, after a particularly restless night that just _demanded _that the Beast be released. I had been hunting with Farkas in the plains surrounding Whiterun for most of the night. Subsequently, I was harder to wake than the dead. Hardly an auspicious start to the day.

"_ON YOUR FEET, DRAGONBORN!" _a booming, masculine, and (in retrospect) Breton voice shouted. Its owner was then kind enough to yank the covers off my sleeping form.

"_Zu'u nahl!" _I said immediately, spitting out _'I'm alive!' _in the first language that lent itself to my tongue as I sprang to my feet, magicka crackling to life at my fingertips.

There was silence, and then Delvin Mallory said, diplomatically, "Well bloody hell, that was impressive."

I glanced over to him, blinking away the remnants of Vaermina's realm. "Comes from years of sleeping in the woods," I offered semi-sheepishly, dissipating the magicka and hopping down to the floor. "What's going on?"

Delvin then proceeded to tell me that Ulfric had arrived. "…And the messenger, one Proventus Avenicci, respectfully requests your presence in Dragonsreach."

I snorted. "Yeah, I'll bet he does." I intensely disliked the Imperial. "But this is _wonderful _news! We're finally getting to _fighting. _And here I'd been wondering if I'd be stuck in Whiterun forever."

Delvin chuckled. "Easy on the bloodlust there, Tiberia. You'll be cracking skulls soon enough. Best keep a level 'ead for this meeting, 'ey?"

I nodded. "Right you are." As much as I hated to admit it. "Is Proventus still here?"

"No, 'e left as soon as 'e delivered the message."

I snorted. "Too snow-backed to deliver it to the woman herself, eh? What a s'wit." I shook my head. "Delvin, would you please send Vilkas, Brynjolf, and Tolfdir down here?"

Delvin nodded. "You got it, Guildmaster." And he disappeared out the door again.

I had just pulled on the rest of my Guild Amor (which was looking rather like it had been through the ringer as of late) and stepped into the adjoining room when my Seconds arrived on the scene. "Morning, gentlemen," I greeted.

I was assaulted by my three major titles at once:

"Harbinger."

"Guildmaster."

"Arch-Mage."

I blinked. "What, no 'Dragonborn?' That seems to be everyone's favorite these days."

Mercifully, these three knew me well enough to know when I'm joking. It was evinced in Brynjolf's unconcealed snort, Tolfdir's bemused expression, and Vilkas' smirk. "You've just got too many titles, lass," Brynjolf said.

"Truth," I agreed with a laugh, but then turned serious. "Is it true? Ulfric's here?"

Vilkas nodded. "Aye. Rode in under the White Flag this morning. He wants to discuss the terms of your surrender." Such contempt in his voice at that. Made me proud.

"There will be none of that nonsense," I said, waggling a finger like some old matron at her unruly charges. "Victory or Sovngarde."

"Heart of a Nord," Brynjolf commented in a singsong tone.

I rolled my eyes at him as I asked Tolfdir, "Did anyone get a decent look at his retinue?"

He nodded. "Hulda at the Bannered Mare was in the square when it happened. Said Ulfric came in with three other people—two Elves, one Nord."

Three advisors—I'd need three, as well. Only, "What kind of Elf? High Elves?"

Tolfdir shrugged apologetically. "She admits she isn't very good at telling the Elfish races apart, especially under black robes."

I sighed. "Assuming the worst, Ulfric's probably got Neva, Rulindil, and Galmar with him, then." Not people I liked to tangle with. Nevertheless, I clapped my hands together in a definitive gesture. "Well then, gentlemen, suit up." Even as I continued to speak, I strode down the hallway. "Brynjolf, might I recommend the Nightingale Armor? Vilkas, the Wolf? And Tolfdir… hell, I don't know; find badass mages' robes. If you want Master level ones, go scour Breezehome. I know there're some in there. And have _any _of you seen Lydia? She knows how my Daedric Armor fits together…"

"Tiberia!" Tolfdir called.

I immediately halted and turned on heel to face him. "Aye?"

The old Nord bowed his head slightly, a Dark Elven gesture of deference, one he no doubt learned from my predecessor, Savos Aren. "I think it best if I do not accompany you to Dragonsreach."

"What are you on about?" My brow furrowed as I padded back over to him. (Bryn and Vilkas were already halfway to wherever-the-hell they'd been sleeping over the past month.) "You're my Second, the Master Wizard of the College of Winterhold. Why wouldn't you be on my war council?"

"That is exactly why," the Master of Alteration said with a note of apology in his voice. "It was decided that we would leave the College and aid in the fight as friends and colleagues of yours—not as College Mages."

My confusion dissipated. "Ah, right." I bowed in deference in return. "Forgive me; I forget, not everyone has to take political sides so publically as me."

Tolfdir nodded. "There's that…" he sighed. "And the fact that my temper is rather short when dealing with bureaucrats."

I clapped him on the shoulder. "So is mine."

"I heard you stabbed the Jarl's table the other day," Vilkas interjected with a poorly-concealed smirk.

Bryn's good-natured smirk overtook his face without any attempt at subtlety. "Repeatedly."

"Oh go die," I retorted, then turned on heel, and headed off in the direction of the main hall.

"And where are you going?" Vilkas called after me.

"To find a Mage!" I called back. _And I know just who to ask._

-)

A good half-hour later, I stood at the top of the steps to Dragonsreach, flanked by a solid wall of Nord muscle—Brynjolf on my right, absolutely terrifying in the Armor of the Nightingales, and Vilkas on my left, fierce and proud in the Wolf Armor of the Circle—and the rearguard brought up by a genuine Altmeri Battlemage—Ondolemar himself, looking more at ease in Master Destruction Robes than he ever had in Thieves Guild Armor. I myself wore my trusty old Daedric Armor, the deep ebony and rising spires drawing me back to a time when my sole title had been 'Lady.' Before I was Dragonborn. Before I was Harbinger. Before I was Guildmaster.

Before I was someone.

"…And let me do the talking, unless you just _know _I'm going to say something incredibly offensive," I was saying to them. We were waiting for the Jarl to invite us in—one does not simply walk into a traditional war council, after all.

Brynjolf paused in the action of yanking the facemask up over his nose. "So, before you even begin…?" Ondolemar and Vilkas both cracked up at that.

I rolled my eyes and yanked the hood down over his. "I'm a Dunmer, icebrain. I know how to handle myself politically. I just don't always care to."

"Try _ever _care to," Ondolemar noted dryly.

"And you, try not to give yourself away," I said to my Brother Elf. "There's no telling if decorum or the need for vengeance will win, when it comes to Neva. She'll no doubt recognize you—it's whether or not she prefers to kill you now, or later."

"I'm not afraid of your eldest sister," Ondolemar said, and his words had an ominous ring to them.

"I am," Brynjolf admitted. "And if you had any sense, Ondolemar, you would be, too."

Vilkas' brow furrowed. "When have you met Neva? I didn't think anyone on our end of Skyrim had."

"She impersonated Ty a while back," Brynjolf said, gesturing to me. His movements were eerily detached from the man I knew, now that he was entirely encased in black. "Came to the Guild as a doppelganger. Had a few of our Guildsiblings going."

"But not you?" Ondolemar asked lightly.

Brynjolf's smirk came through in his voice. "As if a higher-voiced, thicker version of Tiberia that _wasn't _a smartass wasn't enough to set something off?"

Vilkas blinked in confusion. "_Thicker?"_

Brynjolf shrugged. "The armor didn't fit."

"Of course it wouldn't," Ondolemar scoffed, and it sounded like the words just tumbled out of his mouth. "I used to joke that _Neva _was the one who seemed to have Nord blood in her somewhere, all things considered."

I burst out laughing. "You just became my new hero, Ondolemar of Alinor!"

"So Ty's the short one?" Brynjolf commented.

Ondolemar nodded. "Mm-hmm. Shortest of the Sisters. Also, most factions."

My eyelid twitched as both narrowed. "I am standing here with two Nords and a High Elf—you _ought _to be taller than me. Dark Elves run short—this is known."

"You're, what, five and a quarter?" Vilkas piped up.

I shot him a sidelong look. "Aye, last I checked."

"Then you…" he said, drawing his Greatsword and jamming the end into the ground. "…are as tall as my blade."

Brynjolf and Ondolemar both lost it at that. I eyed the crossguard (which, coincidentally, was just below the level of my eyes) with the sort of distaste I tended to reserve for frostbite spiders. Or small children. "I will Shout at you, I swear to Azura."

Vilkas snorted as he yanked his sword from the earth and sheathed it again. "And it will not be the first time you have shouted at me."

"I think she meant Shout with a capital s…" Ondolemar began, just as Jarl Balgruuf, Proventus Avenicci, and Irileth of Morrowind strode out of Dragonsreach. We four all snapped to dignified attention, insults and jokes immediately thrown aside.

"Are you prepared to disarm and meet in civil deliberation?" the Jarl asked, the words as old as Tamriel itself.

Affirmation: "Aye" from the Nords and "Yes" from the Elves.

"Then come." Balgruuf beckoned for us to follow. "Be welcome in my hall and home."

We fell into step behind the Jarl, his steward, and his Housecarl, and before long found ourselves in the Great Hall of Dragonsreach (the lower portion, before the grand stairs). "Here you will disarm in full view of the Jarl," Irlieth ordered swiftly.

To my left, I noted a pile of weapons had already formed—chief among them, Ulfric's steel war axe, Galmar's iron battle axe, and Neva's ceremonial longsword. "As it is written," I agreed, the formal words reminding me of Dunmeri ritual.

Our weapons were laid to the right—my twin swords, Dawnbreaker and the Ebony Sword of the Blaze, plus the Orcish dagger in my boot; Brynjolf's twin Daedric war axes and Mehrunes' Razor; Vilkas' Skyforged-steel Greatsword and Dagger; Ondolemar's Elven Dagger. Once disarmed, we turned to face the Jarl once more.

"Under the eyes of Akatosh, Lord of Time," Irileth began, "and Lady Azura, Queen of the Night Sky, do the Mages of your party solemnly swear to refrain from calling upon their magicka, or risk expulsion form the council?"

"Yes," I said with a curt nod.

"Indeed," Ondolemar agreed, hands up, palms facing inward.

"And," Jarl Balgruuf added, his words not technically ceremonial but no less important, "do the Masters of the Thu'um within your party swear to refrain from Shouting in the Dragons' Tongue?"

I nodded. "Agreed."

"Then come." The Jarl beckoned to us once more. "The rest of the council is already seated."

We fell into step once more, and strode up the stairs with our heads held high. I felt naked without the familiar weight of my swords, and with my honor in the balance as far as magic was concerned. Sometimes I couldn't stop the Thu'um from lacing itself in my everyday speech, but at least that was excusable. Ulfric, after all, had the same problem.

We reached the top of the landing a moment later, and I immediately noted that Ulfric had seated himself at the far end of the room, just below the Jarl's throne. Someone, it seemed, had removed the usual dining tables for the council. Ulfric's position left my comrades and me in the position of the supplicant. _Duly noted, _I thought grimly.

My eyes strayed from the configuration of furniture to my opponents. Seated at the helm, looking very Nordic in his fur-linked cloak and chainmail, was Ulfric Stormcloak himself. Streaks of grey had begun to work themselves into his hair and beard, but this was clearly still a man capable of war (more akin to Mercer Frey than Kodlak Whitemane). Jos eues were as piercing as ever, taing note of whom I'd brought with me. They were not the eyes of a madman, as I'd offhandedly hoped to find. If he wasn't mad, then what in _Oblivion _was his reason for capitulating to the Thalmor?

On his right, Neva was seated. She was getting old as well, I couldn't help but notice. Her hari was still that light-sucking brown-black, and bound up in the traditional Dunmeri style (which prompted Vilkas' comment, "Is she going to the Battlefield or the Ballroom?" I elbowed him in the ribs to keep form laughing.) Her skin, more grey than blue, showed little of her stressful position in complexion or wear-and-tear. What kind of warrior doesn't have scars, I ask you? It was her eyes—my eyes, our mother's eyes—that showed her exhaustion. She wore the traditional black-and-gold robes of the Aldmeri Dominion, which suited her as though she'd been born to wear them. I grieved for my sister for that fact alone.

Directly behind Ulfric stood Galmar Stone-Fist, with a determined-to-be-obstinate expression. He was the oldest in true age, if not chronologically, and yet he was the most animated. Vaguely, I wondered what he thought of Ulfric backed by the Aldmeri Dominion. His hatred of Elves was legendary, but it was only second to his love for Ulfric Stormcloak. Close as brothers, they were. Galmar put up with me for the good of Skyrim, and perhaps by the end of my time in the Stormcloak army, we'd been something awfully close to friends.

On Ulfric's left was—oh.

Oh merciful Talos, _no._

"So this is how Bloodlines die, eh?" Ondolemar commented with steel I never would have expected out of him. "All the work you've done, everything she's done for you, and this is how you repay her?"

"I had no choice…!" began the figure on Ulfric's feet, springing to its feet, its eyes obscured under a Dark Brotherhood Cowl.

"Hush, Avalon," I snapped. "Save the excuses for your Dread Father. I have no doubt at least one of the Morwyns will go to meet him by autumn's end."

The Blood-Bond was baffled. My wrath, Avalon's contrition, our mutual broken hearts… it was too much for the poor thing. It blew itself out of commission. (Or, perhaps, Nocturnal was doing us a kindness.) Avalon sank into her seat once more, retreating beneath her cowl.

I forced myself to train my gaze on Ulfric Stormcloak, even as my heart broke and my throat constricted. "Hail, Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm, called Stormcloak."

He nodded, then returned tradition. "Hail, Lady Tiberia of House Morwyn, Great House Redoran, called Dovahkiin."

"If you would be seated," Proventus interjected, "we can begin."

I would now lower myself to his level. I would not lower myself to that of my sisters. Instead, I braced both hands against the waist-high table, and leveled my gaze out over the enemy. "Let us begin." Neva bristled at the breach in decorum, but I didn't give a damn.

"You were wise to come here, Dragonborn," Ulfric began, eloquently enough for a Nord. "No blood need be shed if diplomacy reigns, eh?"

"Too true," I agreed, finding myself slipping back into the Elf ways without thought. "Though I do wonder, Jarl Ulfric, what we have to speak about. It seems quite simple to me."

"Pray tell," Neva interjected in the smooth, Great House accent, "why is that, Sister Dear?" Avalon did not comment.

"Because, _Sister Dear," _I returned with most of the sarcasm on the wayside, "an unrelenting force has met a stone wall. We all know I will never surrender; we all know Uflric won't, either. Again, I ask you, what have we to discuss?"

"I think you will find my terms preferable to battle," Ulfric offered.

"This should be good," I heard Brynjolf mutter blackly to Ondolemar.

One eyebrow delicately arched, I said, "Go on."

Ulfric smiled, looking more like a bear every moment. "Should you, General Tiberia of the Stormblades, agree to surrender, the terms are thus." He half-turned to Neva, who stood with all ceremony and withdrew from within her robes a scroll.

She unfolded it, spared a glance at me, and then began. "Surrender at council ensures that none of your men will be harmed, Whiterun will be left alone, full immunity for yourself and your commanding officers for one full year, and the withdrawal of the Thalmor from Skyrim."

_What a load of horseshit. _"And the catch?" I inquired.

"You will be taken to Alinor," Avalon answered from beneath the cowl, "and tried as a war criminal. Your fate will be decided there. Jarl Ulfric has also made it his personal goal in life to see the Thieves Guilds of Tamriel wiped clean from Mundus."

I felt Brynjolf bristle, could practically feel the seething hatred for the Thalmor coming from Ondolemar in droves. "And you expect me to…" I began.

"Furthermore," Avalon continued, ignoring the looks she was getting from Ulfric, Neva, and Galmar, "Vilkas and Farkas of the Companions, as well as Aela the Huntress, will be turned over to the mercy of the Vigilants of Stendarr—whom, I'm told, have none to spare—for their Beast Blood, and anyone who took up arms against the Thalmor will be indicted, forced to give up any arms they own, ancestral or otherwise. The College of Winterhold can expect to be watched over by an agent of the Aldmeri Dominion _very _closely, and although they may withdraw for a short time, the Thalmor will return to Skyrim upon her 'purification'." She paused. "And high-ranking Thieves Guild Operatives are likely to be on the block by New Life."

"Now that," I said acidly, "is more like it."

Ulfric and Neva looked about ready to strangle my sister. "She's speculating," Neva hissed. "Completely unfoundedly, might I add."

"Or she's merely giving the truth you weren't going to," I challenged just as swiftly.

"The truth will set you free," Avalon murmured, quoting our House, "as surely as it will damn you."

"Here are the Stormblades' terms," I said, my deadly alto rising like Dragon's fire in the cavernous room. The skull of old Numinex, mounted over the Jarl's throne, seemed to be grinning in the firelight. "Should _you _surrender now, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, we will not decimate every last one of you."

This was immediately met with an uproar, which I calmly silenced with a raised hand. "Did you believe a Morwyn would conduct business any other way?" My voice reverberated throughout the hall. "Did you believe that, upon the battlefield, political ties, bloodlines, and treaties matter—particularly when Thalmor are involved? No, Jarl Ulfric, the betrayers within the Aldmeri Dominion will not show you mercy when you're no longer of used to them."

"We have signed a cease-fire," Neva began hotly.

"Oh, wonderful!" I exclaimed, ignoring the subtle kick in the shin from Vilkas. "And do you really think a piece of paper is going to stop the Thalmor when they're knocking down your walls?"

Our eyes locked, Ulfric's stormy grey and my fiery crimson. For a good moment or two, he said nothing. Then, very quietly, "I think that piece of paper is the _only _thing stopping the Thalmor from knocking down our walls."

I slammed both hands into the table as I pushed myself back up to my full height. "Then you're a damn fool."

Another uproar. "You watch how you talk to your Jarl!" Galmar barked. Reminded me of all those war meetings, all those years ago.

"He isn't my Jarl." I finally used that rebuttal, which had always been on the tip of my tongue. "He's the stubborn ass I used to work for."

"Your father, then," Neva imputed daintily.

Silence. The thick, brooding, storm-brewing kind.

"My father is dead," I finally replied.

"I can't _believe _you just said that," Ondolemar added. "Mother of Mercy, Neva, that was low. What's Boethiah been filling your head with now?"

Neva rose quickly to her feet, slamming her palms into the table. "Bite your tongue, blasphemer!"

"Lady Neva, calm yourself!" Proventus tried.

_"I'm _the blasphemer?" Ondolemar clarified, sounded mortally offended. 'Oh that's rich. You've turned your sisters against each other by force and arrogant pride—as if anything less would do—and _I'm _the blasphemer!?"

"What are you saying, Ondolemar?" Avalon ventured, her eyes still hidden beneath her cowl.

The Altmer behind me whirled on the Listener. "Do you not know who gave you the contract on Tiberia's head?"

"Festus Krex has been handling the money-changing."

Ondolemar's voice grew black as night in the Reach. "She sits on your end of the table."

Avalon leapt to her feet like a singed cat, slamming her palms into the table as she went. "Is this true, Neva?" she cried.

"Of course it is, you s'wit; sit down!" Neva snapped back. "How _else_ do you see sense, if not force?"

"How _dare_ you!" Avalon thundered, leaving her post despite Ulfric tugging at her arm, and pounding over to meet her oldest sister in the open. "How _dare _you plot against a clan sister; how _dare _you conspire murder against blood; how _dare _you attempt a kinkilling!" Avalon was shaking with rage. "How _dare _you turn me against Tiberia! You arrogant, two-faced bitch, I will murder you in your sleep, grind your bones into ash, ensure you _never _see Atherius. _HOW DARE YOU!"_

Every Elf in the room, including me, had their jaw on their collarbone. Avalon wasn't just threatening to kill our sister in cold blood—she'd make sure Neva never saw the planes of Oblivion. I'd be sure to help.

"What I do," Neva barked back, "I do for the glory of the Aldmeri Dominion—_and _our House, lest you forget. Tiberia is hardly conducive to our reputation."

Avalon snorted with black contempt, her fingers flexing and twitching they way they did when she was visibly trying to stop herself from sparking a brawl—or worse. "A Hero of Legend not good enough for you?"

"Bastard half-Nord," Neva clarified, "more like."

I threw up my hands in frustration. "Back to this again! Give it up, Neva—you're working with my blood father, now."

Just as Neva whirled on me, Jarl Balgruuf cut in with a surprising amount of finesse. "Lady Neva, Mistress Avalon, General Tiberia… perhaps it would be best to continue this discussion in private?"

"Aye," I agreed. "We'll continue this on the Great Porch."

Neva harrumphed at being out leader-ed, but Avalon just nodded—"Wise." I realized, as her fingers strayed to where her blade would be, that it was probably _her _ceremonial longsword sitting in the pile down the stairs.

"Perhaps someone should go to make sure things stay cordial…?" Irileth ventured.

I cocked an eyebrow. "Are you volunteering?"

She immediately shook her head no. "Agreed," Avalon told her. "This is a family mater, it should stay _in _the family." The Listener turned to my retinue. "Brynjolf! Would you be so kind…?"

"Aye, lass." He detached from his post.

"Are you mad?" Neva asked Avalon bluntly.

"He'll be family soon enough," Avalon replied crisply.

Neva froze, her gaze locked on me now. "Have you finally gone completely _mental_, Tiberia? I think you have! You could have married into one of the most powerful families in the Aldmeri Dominion…!" She shook her head in frank disbelief. "And instead, you _settle_ for a backwoods, fur-covered, mead-swilling _Nord?!"_

_ "ENOUGH!" _Ondolemar—of all people!—roared. (Funny, I don't think I'd ever even heard him raise his voice before that moment.) "That is _quite _enough, Neva Morwyn."

"Care to join the fun, Ondolemar?" Avalon commented with no small amount of black humor.

"My dear Lady," the Altmer replied with spite of his own, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."


	86. Deadly Trinity

**Hey all you readers, lurkers, and reviewers! A big thank you to all of you, and a happy Doomsday! (well, a tad belatedly, in my neck of the woods). **

**And the non-PM crew:**

**We know: I know that feel. **puts hand over heart** my PS3 went coughsplutterdie last year.**

**Lyriel: I like Galmar a hell of a lot more than I do Uflric, but it's hard to separate him from said Jarl. And haha, that's quite alright, glad to see you're back :D**

**Onward with drama.**

**-)**

The Great Porch had been built into Dragonsreach to house the great dragon Numinex, all those years ago. The large, open room had a very high ceiling and only three walls, leaving it exposed to the elements. I could smell a storm brewing on the horizon, could feel the crispness of Skyrim's short autumn giving way to winter. It had been built for Numinex, aye, and I had used it to trap Odahviing to gain entrance to Sovngarde. And those who had once trapped me stood in it now. Interesting, how fate works in circles, isn't it?

Neva, Avalon, and I stood, roughly in the middle of the room, in a triangle of sorts, equidistant from one another. Brynjolf and Ondolemar—newly reequipped with their daggers, for personal protection—lingered just outside our triumvirate. Brynjolf had the hood and facemask of his armor down, and magicka kept flashing across Ondolemar's fingers—a sign of agitation in a powerful mage. I found it funny, really. The three Morwyn Sisters, together for the first time in Hermaeus Mora only knew how long, and none of us knew what to say. It was a forced calm, an uneasy calm. If one of us started shouting—and we knew we all would, sooner or later—we'd spark a brawl.

"Why?" I finally got out. Neva and Avalon practically jumped out of their skins at the sound of my voice. "Just… _why?"_

"You betrayed us," Neva said quietly, without the venom or wrath so characteristic of her.

"And you've been betraying me ever since," I noted with just as little anger.

"You expect me to forgive a traitor?" Neva questioned, eyebrows arching. "As though what you did, what you are, didn't cost us everything?"

I shrugged. "Forgive, forget, take up arms against me—I don't give a damn what you do. I just want to know why."

Avalon's eyes were shut, her face a pained line. "When did you get so bitter, little sister?"

I glanced toward the middle sister. "Somewhere between Morrowind, Summerset, Cyrodiil, and Skyrim." Then my gaze flicked back to the eldest. "Why, Neva?" It had been so long since I had called her simply her name to her face. "Why did you bother raising me as your own, if this was the outcome? Why did you bother to teach me magicka, if you would use it to destroy me? Why did you even bother to attempt an arrangement, bother to educate me, bother to make sure I was growing up 'a proper Dunmeri maiden?' Why did you _bother_ to pretend you loved me?"

Neva, for the longest time, was silent. She looked so regal, halfway to noble, in magician's robes and with her hair bound. But it was a farce, a façade. "I did love you, Tiberia," Neva began, not looking at me, or Avalon, or anyone. "You were my sister—what else would I do? I looked after you, because half your blood is mine. Mother told me, as soon as you were born, exactly what you are. No names, just bloodlines. She did this, so that I could keep an eye on anything… out of the ordinary, shall we say?"

"And so you shut her away," Avalon commented blackly, "kept her from things deemed 'too Nordic,' in your eyes. Hired a governess to instill the Dunmer values in her. Born for the sword, our sister was. And you attempted to make a Mage out of her first." She shook her head, raven-black hair flying everywhere. "It was folly, Neva, and I warned you as much every time I came home. You were fighting her very nature, and expected it to just… _change."_ Avalon made a fluttering motion with her hand._ "_As though it were made of clay, and not stone."

"Well, you didn't have to undermine me," Neva retorted, "every time I made any progress."

"And what was I supposed to do?" Avalon fired back. "Tell the _born _warrior, she can't pick up a sword, mace, or axe? Tell her, oh sure, you can fight… from a distance, and with the elements. You can't chop a man's head with a fireball, Neva."

"And what happened when she trained with an axe, hmm? You could _see _the Nord in her!"

Avalon leveled out her gaze from under her hair. "I wouldn't necessarily consider that a bad thing."

Neva snorted derisively. "Yes, _you _wouldn't."

"Peace, Neva," Ondolemar called warningly, his hand on the hilt of his dagger. "Be at peace."

"And you," she called to him, "siding with the humans? Your brother is turning in his grave."

Brynjolf's eyes narrowed, even as Ondolemar said, "The cause we fought for, that Oberon _died_ for is long gone. And there are just as many Mer on my side as yours." He added the second statement as an afterthought.

"Whatever happened to _Merish_ _superiority_?" Avalon asked, her black tone making it clear exactly what her thoughts on the matter were.

Ondolemar spared a glance for the middle Morwyn sister. "If you speak a lie enough, you can pretend to convince yourself that it isn't a lie, but the truth."

"Then you're a traitor, too," Neva whispered, claws finally coming out in her words, "and you will die with her." She jerked her chin in my direction.

"That's the second time you've called her a traitor in ten minutes," Brynjolf commented, his face a hard mask. "Dare I ask why?"

Neva locked gazes with my Second-in-Command, and neither the man nor the mer flinched. "I will tell you why, foolish Nord," Neva acquiesced, her eyes narrowing, "only so that when your death comes in the form of yours truly, you will know why." She drew in a deep breath, breaking eye contact. "Tiberia was born on the Thirteenth of Frostfall, Fourth Era, year One Hundred and Seventy Six. There is a one-hundred-and-twenty-seven-year age gap between her and myself, and one-hundred-and-one years between her and Avalon. Clearly, my mother was getting on in years."

"It would be like a human woman having a child at forty, after having her first children around the age of twenty," Avalon clarified for Brynjolf. "Not unheard of, but certainly odd. Some might say dangerous."

"And because our mother was so much older," Neva continued without so much as a nod in Avalon's direction, "she was established within her career. She was never in Morrowind very long. Raising her mistake fell to me."

"That's enough of that," Brynjolf said at once.

"I quite agree," said Ondolemar, folding his arms across his sternum.

Neva shot them both a withering look. "Can we not agree, my mother did not intend to have Tiberia?"

"That is true," Avalon agreed, but something dangerous flashed in her eyes, "but mother loved her just the same."

I snorted derisively. "I shudder to think of your childhoods."

"Neva was the favorite," Avalon interjected. "Mother was practically beside herself when Neva came to her saying she wanted to go into the priesthood. When I joined the Tong, I was not greeted with such fanfare."

"It's hardly your style, anyway," Ondolemar noted.

"That isn't the point." Avalon pushed her bangs out of her eyes with the back of her hand. "The point is, Neva didn't understand what it was to be anything less than loved, anything less than accepted."

"And you do?" Neva challenged.

Avalon's gaze was murderous. "Am I, or am I not, an assassin?" Neva nodded uneasily. "Did I or did I not find my calling at the age of twenty-three? Was mother or was she not appalled at my choice?"

"She came around," Neva replied after a beat pause.

"Aye, just in time for Tiberia to be born!"

"Can we get back to the story?" I asked, and once again, my sisters both jumped at the sound of my voice.

Neva regained composure almost as quickly as she'd lost it, however, and nodded to me. "As you grew older, Tiberia, as you grew into a woman proper, your bloodlines became more apparent."

"My face," I said, and it wasn't a question.

"And your build," Ondolemar piped up. The entirety of the room turned to face him with the same confused look, finding the Altmer with his hands at the small of his back. He returned our gazes with an 'oh come now' variety. "Oh, I changed your diapers; it isn't as weird as it sounds."

I snorted. "Did you really?"

"Yes, when Avalon would mysteriously disappear and Neva would receive an _urgent message…"_ Ondolemar put air quotes around his words. "…and leave me standing there with a crying infant." He shook his head.

Poor Bryn had his thumb and ring finger pressed into his temples. "Elves and age is just mindboggling."

"It gets easier," Avalon told him apologetically as Neva smirked and said, "It only gets worse from here."

"Regardless," Ondolemar continued in an effort to speed the conversation along, "what your sister is trying to say, Ty, is that you weren't growing up to look like a true Dark Elf—and it was only a matter of time before people started to question."

Neva nodded gratefully in his direction. "They were already _starting_ to talk, too late to head that off. I knew that the only way you would be safe was if you weren't even _in _Morrowind. And so Ondolemar and I devised a plan."

"Leave me out of it," the High Elf snapped back fiercely. "You did the plotting, I just tracked down Cyrano."

"Mmm," Neva nodded. "Fair enough, I suppose. I spoke with Cyrano, convinced him to marry one of my sisters. I didn't tell him which; I know he assumed I meant Avalon."

"I was married to Mordred by then," Avalon commented lightly.

"And what better reason to marry the youngest sister?" Neva shrugged. "Of course, shortly after that, Mordred was killed."

"You're welcome," I said to Avalon, whose smile caught everyone—including herself—off-guard.

Neva continued, "So I arranged her marriage and just about _guaranteed _her safety for the rest of her life, for Altmer see blue skin, red eyes, and pointed ears, and think, 'Dunmer.' Dark Elves see blue skin, red eyes, and pointed ears, and think, 'why isn't her face as sharp as it should be?'"

"Truth," Ondolemar admitted.

"Also true for Nords," Brynjolf added. "Generally speaking."

"_All _you had to do, Tiberia," Neva now addressed me directly, her voice rising with intensity, "was stay put. _Stay_ in Alinor, marry Cyrano, bear him a son, and then you'd be free join the war effort _but you ran. _And _that, _sister dear, is why you are a traitor."

"Join the Thalmor, you mean," I growled.

"Precisely. Your life would have been _golden."_

"That wasn't the end," Avalon commented. All eyes in the room flickered to her, who was standing calm as you please with her hands behind her back. "Not if I had any say."

"I agreed with you," Ondolemar interjected.

"Yes, _fetcher, _you Blood-Bonded with the little s'wit," Neva snapped. "Threw a wrench into my perfectly-executed plans."

Avalon snorted. "And it wouldn't have been the only one." She turned to me. "Tiberia, did I ever tell you what your wedding gift was going to be?"

My eyebrow shot into my hairline. "No… 'fraid not."

Avalon snorted again, this time without malice. "A Brotherhood Contract, on Cyrano's head. Untraceable, to you or me. He was a high-ranking Thalmor with plenty of enemies. Even when—not if, because Altmer are a bloody paranoid lot—you came under scrutiny, they wouldn't be able to trace anything to you. You would have been free and clear, with a powerful bloodline at your back."

Neva's face twisted in shock and horror. "You _bitch!"_

Avalon rolled her eyes. "At least _I_ didn't attempt to marry her off to a Thalmor without telling her the actual plan."

I folded my arms across my torso. "You both seem to be forgetting the fact that I couldn't _stand _Cyrano."

"Oh, it's an _arrangement," _Neva snapped. "You don't _have _to."

"Oh, I knew it was going to end badly," Avalon said with a nod to me. "I warned Neva, asked Ondolemar to keep an eye on you. Then he got stationed in Markarth and everything got shot to Oblivion."

Ondolemar cocked an eyebrow. "_That's _when everything got shot to Oblivion?"

Avalon chuckled blackly, "Well no, I suppose the die was cast well before that. Her destiny was written in the stars, as it were. Foretold in the scrolls." She chuckled again, that same humorless laugh that sounded so wrong sounding from her. "Who she is now is who she was meant to be."

"Nchow," Neva spat derisively. "She could have been anything."

The winds from the coming storm were whistling through the beams in the upper balcony. "I was never going to be anything less than a warrior," I said.

"But _whose _warrior—that was the question," Neva shot back.

"Not yours," I said at once.

Neva snorted. "No, and that's what damned you."

Avalon's glance was sidelong, under her hair. "The only thing damning her is her oldest sister."

"And the middle one," Neva replied, sounding rather smug.

Avalon's eyes narrowed and she whirled to face her older sister. "Do not pretend I go into this fight on your side willingly. I know I'm on the losing side—I can feel it in my bones."

"Then why _do _you?" I called to her, the rage and pain I'd tried to strangle welling up to the surface through my words. "I have been worried sick for you for the last week! The Blood-Bond had me _catatonic! _The only thing keeping me from finding you was Brynjolf and Vilkas physically holding me back." Avalon winced at my words, her face twisting in sorrow. "I worried for you, grieved for you, and then I come to this..." I gestured behind us, toward the Great Hall. "…and find you across the table from me."

Avalon drew in a steadying, and her voice became cold and strong as steel. "When the Tong disbanded, I tried to live a different life—I was a mercenary, an alchemist, a mere soldier—but every last one was hollow. I had dedicated a century of my life to the art of assassination and I truly believe Mephala made me for nothing else. So I went to Cheydinhal, in Cyrodiil, and I looked the Dark Brotherhood—yes, I swallowed my stubborn pride and sought out the very rival of the Morag Tong. I had no choice." She shuddered visibly.

"But when I got to Cheydinhal, a mad Imperial man who spoke of himself in the third person told me they'd all been killed. He was moving to Skyrim to find his other Dark Brothers and Sisters—I should come with him."

"That was Cicero," I surmised.

Avalon nodded. "Cicero brought me into the Dark Brotherhood. That's why I do my best to put up with him. Never may it be said that a Morwyn does not pay her debts." Avalon's gaze flicked up to meet mine. "Don't you see, Tiberia? I don't have a choice. I wish, with all my heart, that I was sleeping in Jorrvaskr with you and your friends, preparing for war like the Battle for Riften…" She was on the verge of tears, but the steel in her voice was warding them off. "But with a contract on your head, none of your friends would trust me—as well they shouldn't. A fool trusts an assassin.

"I'm not a leader—not like you, not like Neva—but I can't leave Festus and Cicero. I don't know _what _I should do. And every day your contract sits on my desk unfulfilled is another day they question the Listener, question the Night Mother, question Sithis." Avalon let out a great, shuddering sigh.

"So you sold your soul for gold," I said thickly, "Neva sold hers for power, and I sold mine for Skyrim. What a pitiful family we are."

"Some of us are born for power," Neva hissed.

I finally lost my forced calm. "And some of us _take_ it!" I bellowed. "Your precious _plan, _you conniving, two-faced bitch, was flawed from the outset. You think yourself Queen in your game of chess, and that I'm a pawn—but I'm the King. I am Dragonborn, and _I will not be silenced. _Not by you, or any man."

"It would have been simpler to send her to the College of Whispers," Avalon agreed, her own ire rising, "or the College of Winterhold to study. Both would have gotten her out of Morrowind legitimately and without fuss."

"But no," I snarled, jabbing a finger in Neva's direction, "_you _wouldn't have gotten a foothold into the Thalmor out of the deal! You wanted _power _Neva, and it blew up in your face."

Neva leveled out a dangerous glare at her sisters. "I am First Emissary of the Thalmor in Skyrim. I would say things worked out _despite _your insistence of being a thorn in my side, Tiberia."

"You killed our mother," I growled, "set our family against itself, and nearly killed me in the womb." Neva paled. "Don't think Avalon never told me about the time you slipped mother Moon Tea at a formal dinner party and Avalon had to swap drinks with her when mother wasn't looking. She spent the entirety of the evening puking after that, by the way."

"Is there nothing too low for you, Neva?" Brynjolf asked, his thick, human accent cutting through our crisp, elven diction like a war axe.

"I didn't kill mother," Neva said hotly, her shoulders shaking with rage, "I begged him not to. But Cyrano made a threat, and your game of chicken cost us all _dearly."_

"Like you couldn't have stopped him," Avalon scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. "You're a Battlemage."

"And where were you _then_, Blood-Bond?" I barked.

"Looking for you in Cyrodiil!" she shouted back.

"Yes, yes, you're _both _useless," Neva growled. "No need to fight about it now."

"_Useless?" _I shrieked. "At least _I _have the decency to stab people in the _front!" _

"Are you impugning my honor?!" Neva hissed. "How dare you…!"

I thudded over to her, stopping just before my oldest sister. I spread my arms wide. "Go on, then. Prove to me you have any. You're a Mage; the fact that you don't have a weapon is irrelevant. We both know we three can kill without them."

I stood there for the longest moment, arms spread wide. But Neva stayed her hand. "Perhaps I should just make it easier on you, then." I turned my back to her, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see the tears now falling freely down Avalon's face, though she made no sound.

"You know," Avalon noted, and Neva and I both turned to face her at the sound, "Tiberia is the only one of us who can still claim to have honor, when you really think about it."

"She's a _thief," _Neva growled.

"A shitty thief," I defended.

"And I'm an assassin, and you're a Thalmor," Avalon shot back, ignoring me, "none of us is perfect. But when you think about it—when you really _think _about it—she just described us all rather well, don't you think? She stabs you in the front, you stab in the back, and I just slit throats."

Neva sniffed. "That explains why she's the one with so much blood on her hands. Our ways are less messy."

"And she earned it all in open combat," Avalon growled. "She earned it all defending herself, her friends, her family, and those who couldn't do so themselves. It is said about the Dragonborn that she never took up arms against someone undeserving."

"My Ancestors are smiling on me, Neva." I glanced back to her. "Can you say the same?"

Neva squared her shoulders. "I am _sure _Boethiah is smiling on me."

"Well now," I retorted, "that's a gamble you're just going to have to take, now isn't it?"

Neva looked profoundly uneasy at the thought, and she couldn't meet my eyes. Her gaze flicked to Avalon, who was equally as merciless, then to Ondolemar and Brynjolf, both standing resolutely in my corner—metaphorically speaking, anyway. "I just don't understand it," she muttered to herself in Dunmeris.

"What?" Avalon asked with an eye roll, also dropping into Dunmeris.

"Him," Neva said, jerking in chin in Bryn's direction. "Or, more accurately, why our little sister fell for him."

I shot her a withering look, then joined them in our mother tongue, "It's love; it doesn't have to make sense."

Avalon just laughed. "Isn't that the truth."

"He's not even attractive!" Neva exclaimed. "I could maybe understand if he were, but as it stands…"

"See, Neva, that's where you're wrong," Avalon interrupted.

I smirked. "I quite agree."

"Explain to me what you could _possibly _find endearing about that." Neva shook her head. "He's _furry, _for the gods' sake!"

"It isn't so hard," Avalon smirked. "Cyrano—or hell, Ondolemar, even—was slim and tall, with a beautiful face, chiseled like an artists' masterpiece, no?" Neva nodded and so did I, much more reluctantly. "But 'beautiful' isn't a word you use to describe a human man. No, they're just… _masculine. _They're big, broad-shouldered, and bearded…" Avalon gestured loosely in Bryn and Ondolemar's direction. "Tiberia was never going to fall in love with an _elf, _Neva—they're not resolute enough, not the way humans are. And I'm sure Ty could give you a hundred reasons why she made her choice, but the most important one, I'm sure you can guess for yourself."

"They're _equals," _Neva sneered. "You can tell from the way they walk."

Avalon nodded. "Tiberia has always respected those who respect her. That's why you'll see none from her."

"And _why?" _I snarled, turning to face Neva again, who apparently, had moved closer to Avalon during the last debate. "_Why _do you think so little of me? Is what I've done not enough for you?" I spread my arms wide. "They sing of my deeds from Markarth to Riften, and still you spit on me. Azura help you if you tell me it's blood. Azura help you."

Neva's eyes narrowed. "And what else would it be?"

I managed to get a grand total of three steps in before I felt myself yanked back by the force of my own momentum. "Easy, Ty," Brynjolf muttered somewhere near my ear. "You're doing yourself no favors if you spark a brawl under a white flag."

"Let me _go," _I barked, attempting to yank my arm out of his grasp.

"Lass, I don't speak Dunmeris."

Oh. Whoops. I hadn't even realized I was still speaking it. "I said, let go." Another insistent yank. "I'm not stupid enough to start a fight here."

Brynjolf released me. "Sometimes I wonder."

Neva had been watching this whole exchange in thinly veiled disgust, while Avalon was watching with a bemused smile. "You really do love her," she commented to Brynjolf in the common tongue, "don't you?"

He cocked an eyebrow in her direction. "Would I be putting myself at the mercy of a Thalmor Battlemage and a lifetime assassin otherwise?"

"No," Neva admitted unwillingly, "I suppose not."

The silence that followed was deafening. The winds stirred again, whipping my braids about my face and tangling Avalon's hair. Brynjolf reclaimed his spot with Ondolemar. "Know this, Neva Morwyn," I finally said, my voice reverberating in the half-shelled room like the tolling of a bell, "I will not kill you here. You will walk from this council and back to your camp unscathed—I swear it on our Ancestors. But come the Battle for Whiterun, you will see no mercy from me. I will grind your bones into dust; I will ensure that you _never _see Aetherius. You will taste of the Thu'um, and you will weep. And you will know why the Nightingale sings. You will know the power of the Dragonborn—true power, divine-granted, dutifully-wielded. And Avalon…" I half-turned to face her. "…I pray to Talos that we never meet on that field."

We stood there, in a triangle of sorts. Me, in thick Daedric Armor, black and red and all but impenetrable. Avalon, in the skintight, black-and-red leather armor of the Dark Brotherhood, the cowl once more drawn and obscuring her face. Neva, in the black and gold robes of the Thalmor, her hair bound and looking like ritual personified. Azura, Mephala, and Boethiah—the Tribunal, the god-ancestors of the Dunmer, our mother deities—could have been standing in our places, and less power would have thrummed in the air.

"Know this, sisters dear," I said, my shoulders back and my chin held high, "whatever I am—be it ruthless, be it fierce, be it unchanging—I am because if I were anything less, I would have died already. The weak do not make history."


	87. All Becomes Legend, Part 1

****sigh** So I really didn't want to have to do this, but this chapter was just getting way too ridiculously long not to. So it's broken into halves. It's just too important to shorten. I've tried to rewrite the damn thing a few times, and keep coming up with about the same page length. (that's what took so long.) So, another broken-in-half Scar or Story for you all.**

**As always, a huge thank you to all my wonderful readers, lurkers, followers, and reviewers :) You guys are the best.**

**And the Non-PM crew:**

**Insertusername: Ty ended up in Skyrim because she was hiding out in the Bruma Mages' Guild for a while, went out to look for alchemical ingredients, and then was in the wrong place at the wrong time wearing a blue tunic. And thank you :) Glad you enjoy my work**

**We know: don't feel bad; I know how it ends :)**

**Lyriel: Thank you :) And Neva has honor as far as Boethiah's sphere of influence is concerned, and that's really all she cares about.**

**Guest: If you'd seen it coming, I would have done my job wrong :3 **

**Onward.**

**-)**

As expected, I found Tiberia sitting atop Dragonsreach, as close to the sky as her physical body allowed. It was the night after the war meeting, the Thirteenth of Frostfall. Not only was it the Withes' Festival, where spirits of the dear and departed roam Nirn for one more night, but also, it was Tiberia Morwyn's twenty-sixth birthday.

The Elf in question blinked in surprise as I hauled myself up and over the ledge of the room, coming to rest beside her. "How do you people get _up _here?" she asked in all honesty. "I have to _Shout…"_

I cracked a smile. "I hate to break it to you lass, but it isn't _that _hard of a climb. There are a fair amount of hand- and footholds."

She snorted. "Maybe for someone your size."

I let the matter rest. "What are you doing up here, Ty? They're calling for you at Jorrvaskr."

She winced. "That would be why. That, and I've been thinking."

"About?"

She shrugged. "What Sheogorath and Mercer told me the other night, mostly. How everyone ages, but there's old like Mercer Frey, and then there's old like Kodlak Whitemane. How Mercer, proportionally speaking, was about the same age as Neva. And then I get a tangent about how much I'd love to rip out _that _cold, black heart, too." She chuckled with a fair dosage of black humor. "How much I wish the Tong hadn't disbanded and put Avalon in such an unwinnable position. How Ulfric gave me a lot of problems, but there's no doubt that the Dovahsos came from him. The Dragon Blood, my greatest strength—and biggest liability, if you take into account the Battle for Riften." She grew quiet.

"Tiberia," I said, gently but with a resoluteness that was not to be ignored. She glanced over to me, eyes questioning. "Your thoughts are so dark, for a woman on her birthday."

She smiled sheepishly, glancing down to her boots again. "Mother always said I put the 'dark' in 'Dark Elf.'"

"Come on." I extended a hand, working to conceal a snort. "You'll have plenty of time to brood later. Join the party. Maybe if you're lucky, the spirits will show up this year, eh?"

"Do you not draw runes?" she asked as she drew herself up to her feet.

"No, that isn't… Lass, what are you doing?"

The grin she flashed me was downright unsettling. She then barked something in Draconic and her corporeal form became… ethereal. She jumped from the roof, and I couldn't help but follow the path downward. She landed on the hard ground of the walkway before Dragonsreach, dispelling her momentum in a roll before springing to her feet. Her form rematerialized a moment or so later. She waved jovially to me. "Come now!" she called up to me. "Surely you're not scared to make a little jump?"

"Scared? Never!" I called down to her as I began the climb back down. "Smart enough not to, is I think the phrase you're looking for."

Tiberia burst out laughing just as my feet touched ground again. "Sure, Brynjolf. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

I made a face in her general direction before settling an arm over her shoulders as we began the trek back to Jorrvaskr. It never ceased to amaze me how diminutive the woman really was—the Dragonborn was legend; Tiberia Morwyn, larger than life; my lass, a wisp of woman. A wise man, however, does not mistake her stature for docility; a wise man takes her stature for the coiled snake. Her persona and her personality are more apt for someone Farkas' size, after all.

Ty nestled closer into my side as the wind kicked up once more. Poor thing, a wayward Child of Morrowind that made her home in Skyrim. I'd once asked Karliah if she was always cold too, and the archer replied, quite succinctly, that she hadn't felt truly warm since leaving Mournhold.

Out of respect, I let go of Ty just before we burst through the double doors of Jorrvaskr. "Found her!" I announced, and was met with laughter and a tankard pressed into my hands, courtesy of Farkas. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vilkas holding another tankard in such a manner that advertised that he was about to press it into Ty's hands, but thought better of it.

I caught the tail end of their conversation. "…Oh no you don't, Harbinger. You aren't getting out of it. No one has, not in the entirety of my time in the Companions."

Ty shot him a withering look. "You're going to play that card? _Seriously?"_

Vilkas beamed just a bit too brightly to be genuinely. "On your feet, Dovahkiin."

Ty rolled her eyes, and began to clap a steady beat as she hopped up onto the table. Almost instantly, the Companions kept time with her, Vilkas setting the tankard in question by his Harbinger's foot first, and every Nord in the room was not far behind. We knew what this was. Everyone in Skyrim has had to sing it at some point or other. Some nations sing _to _you on your birthday—in Skyrim, you sing for us. Tiberia drew in a breath, and the lyrics fell into time (and I couldn't help but note that the version she'd learned had the Falkreath lilt):

"_So I made it through another year of life,_

_Made it through the hardship, the toils and the strife,_

_But the bitterest pain brings sweetest joy…"_

She paused, then picked up double time.

"…_Though the latter, poor me tends to avoid!_

_And so this wayward daughter of Ysgramor,_

_Will drink this day 'til she meets the floor,_

_And though I mayn't remember a face or name_

_Or most of what transpires this day_

_Here in my twenty-sixth year on Nirn,_

_If there's one damn thing I've learned…"_

Here, the song is different for everyone. Some people choose a familiar couplet passed on through the ages—something about life, love, that sort of thing—but some choose to make their own conclusions. Tiberia was one of the latter.

"…_It's that there's family whose blood you're given at the start,_

_And there's family you're only kin to by heart…"_

Here, she paused to claim the tankard Vilkas had set by her foot. And here, I paused to ponder the couplet she'd decided on.

"…_And so this wayward daughter of Ysgramor,_

_Will drink a round to twenty-six more!"_

Ty threw back her head and drained most of her tankard, then hopped off the table with a surprising amount of grace, all things considered. "Happy now, Vilkas?" she quipped to the younger of the Wolf Twins as the familiar hubbub of conversation began to wash over Jorrvaskr once more.

"He's never happy!" slurred a voice I knew I knew from somewhere, but couldn't place.

The room seemed to turn as one to find a ghostly apparition leaning against the doorframe, ghostly tankard in hand, not a care in the world. After a moment of squinting, I realized this was Torvar, the Companion they'd lost during the Battle of Riften. His former Shield-Siblings greeted him with claps on the shoulder and familiar jokes and jabs. Here was the beauty of the Witches' Festival—reunited families and befitting goodbyes. Only problem was, it could be ugly, too—broken relationships and unrequited love. It really just depends on which emotion is strongest within a person, and which spirits feel it. And it was indeed beautiful and hideous, once we geniuses got a game of Scar or Story going.

"…And so I'm standing there with a clearly-stolen family heirloom," Karliah was saying to a room filled with laughter, having drawn the 'most hilarious time a job went wrong' scrap of paper, "attempting to come up with a story that _won't _get me beheaded in the morning. And then Mercer just waltzes over, says, 'Go home, Karliah; you're drunk…'" Her impression of the former Guildmaster was almost as good as Tiberia's impression of Vilkas. "…takes three steps away, adds, 'And give me that!' and walks away with the crest of House Stormcloak!" By now, Delvin and Cynric are howling with laughter, being the ones in the Guild old enough to have actually lived through the original telling of this story. "And the Guard is just staring at me like I'm a bloody idiot and says, 'Go back to the Gray Quarter, Dark Elf,' as he's shaking his head _and walking away." _She snorted. "And they all left me to puzzle out how in Azura's name this all just happened."

"I see you conveniently left out the part where you nearly fell off a roof because a raven startled you," began a familiar, sardonic voice, "and nearly yanked my arm out of its socket trying to keep you from _falling."_

"Different job," Karliah threw over her shoulder without so much as a pause. "That was in…" She suddenly stood stock still, then whirled around to face the owner of the voice—one ghostly Mercer Frey—with her dagger at the ready.

He shot her a look. "Really, Indigo? Not even the Dragonborn pulled a knife on me this time." He gestured to the Dunmer on my left, all the way across the room.

Tiberia carefully rose to her feet, remarking "You're not in my _head _this time, Mercer…"

He rolled his eyes. "Thank the Divines."

"…And anyway," Ty continued, using her Guildmaster voice, "I think it best the two of you discuss whatever it is you have to discuss outside."

"In the thunderstorm?" Karliah clarified with a cocked eyebrow.

Tiberia returned the facial tic "Unless you'd like all of Jorrvaskr to know your personal problems…?"

"Outside's a plan," Mercer said almost at once, and he and his former partner disappeared into the night.

Ty reclaimed her seat on the steps next to me, and the room dropped into silence for a moment, given the intense nature of Mercer and Karliah. Then I said, "Ondolemar, lad, I do believe you're up. Scar or Story?"

"Story," the Altmer decided, gesturing for the iron helmet we were using as a bowl. He withdrew a slip of paper from it a moment later and proclaimed, "Scariest moment of your life." Ondolemar sat back, thinking this over, and I noticed that his countenance almost immediately darkened.

"You know, Ondolemar," Tonilia told him, not unkindly, since she was three or four tankards deep at this point, "since you fought in the Great War and all, we'd all understand if you just want to tell _one _of the scariest moments of your life." Nods from around the room, from Guild and non-Guild alike.

Ondolemar nodded to the Redguard woman in thanks, his face visibly brightening (why are High Elves somuch easier to read than Dark Elves?). "_One _of the scariest moments of my life, then…" He considered this a moment longer, then began. "Well, when I was stationed in Morrowind after the Great War, I was a guest of House Morwyn for a while. And I was there when Tiberia was born." Nods from around the room—we all knew this. "Well, when our beloved Guildmaster was about…" He paused to do the math, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tiberia roll hers. "…six or seven months old, she contracted Bone Break Fever."

This elicited a sharp gasp from most of the assembled warriors—Companions and Thieves included. Bone Break Fever was known to be especially dangerous for infants and children, what with the cough and all. I remember being nine years old and lying in bed sick with the bloody disease, coughing up a storm, not allowed to see Raynor, Regan, or Aisling. I hadn't gotten it since, however. It was a lot like chicken pox in the sense that if you contacted it once, you weren't likely to do so again. But a seven-month-old contracting the Fever? Now _that _was a terrifying thought.

"And I remember," Ondolemar continued, "waking up one night to that distinctive cough coming from down the hall. Neva and Avalon pounded on my door on their way to investigate, because the Lady Acacia was away on business at this time. In Cyrodiil, maybe?" He shrugged. "And I spent most of that night walking up and down the halls of House Morwyn with Tiberia in my arms, because she stopped crying if someone held her and I'd contracted the Fever when I was a boy."

Some smirking at that, and an admonition of "_I wasn't even a year old yet!" _from Tiberia.

"Avalon spent most of the night hunched over an alchemy table," Ondolemar continued, "continually trying and failing to come up with a cure disease potion that worked. Subsequently, Neva kept having to run to the Cammona Tong for more ingredients—because who else will sell you alchemical ingredients in the dead of night?" The whole room snorted at that.

"Why wasn't anything working?" Tiberia ventured, intrigued despite herself.

Ondolemar sighed. "Well Ty, I remember Avalon shouting that very same question in frustration—albeit with a bit more profanity—and Neva replying, very quietly, 'Try the Nord dosage.' Avalon didn't question, just re-mixed the potion, and that's the one that did the trick. So that's how she and I learned you weren't entirely Dunmer. Although... all things considered, Avalon might have already known."

Ondolemar turned to Njada, who was on his left. "Scar or Story?"

And so the game went, with the occasional story invoking the soul of a long-dead loved one, (or hated one, I suppose). With so many battle-hardened warriors in the same room, scar stories ranged from hilarious (Calder: "I once attempted to eat fish in the dark off my hunting knife. Worst decision ever.") to horrifying (Aisling: "And then my arm was hanging at this unnatural angle and the bone was even sticking out.") to everything in between (Delphine: "And then, thanks to the Dragonborn's inability to distinguish friend from foe, I received third-degree burns for my trouble. Last time I try to help _her _slay a dragon." "Oh, like I needed your help, you frigid bitch."). Farkas was in the middle of telling a story about 'most memorable New Life present' (which, apparently, was the greatsword strapped to his back) when Karliah and Mercer reappeared.

I immediately noted the shift between them. Whatever arguments they'd had, whatever the past had done to the both of them, whatever made Mercer such a bitter old man, had been stripped away, redistributed over both sets of shoulders. Karliah was just as much to blame for what happened as Mercer, but then, the latter hadn't needed to take it to such extremes. But I could tell from the way they came in laughing that whatever rapport they'd had, once upon a time, would at least be partially salvaged in the Evergloam. And that was good. Guildsiblings shouldn't be at one another's throats.

I was fighting a smile (and only half succeeding; I was smirking) when Faralda turned to me and said, "Scar or story, my good man?"

She was definitely drunk. The drunker an Altmer is, the more flowery their language becomes. I hoped mages had a magical hangover cure; we couldn't afford to have anything less than all hands on deck tomorrow. Pushing thoughts of the impending battle from my mind I replied, "Scar."

I pointed to the scar on my left cheek—a ragged, pink/white reminder of my older brother's stupidity. It began just under my cheekbone, veered sharply across my face, and ended just above my chin. (And people wonder why I've grown facial hair since I was old enough for it not to look stupid…) "I was twelve," I began, and that statement alone drew winces and sympathetic looks, "when my parents died, and so my older brother Raynor and I, being the _brilliant _young men that we were, decided we couldn't stay in Falkreath, and so we made the trip to Riften." Nods from the Guild—they knew this, it was mostly backstory for the Companions, the Mages, the people I _didn't _know. "But on the way, we stopped in Whiterun.

"Now, my brother Raynor considered himself something of a lady-killer—even, or perhaps _especially, _at the age of sixteen. And so when we stayed in the Bannered Mare—which, since this was fifteen years ago, wasn't run by Hulda…" I paused. "By _Shor, _I'm old…"

"You don't get to complain for another thirty years, lad," Delvin interrupted, mock sternly.

"Neither do you," Athis told him.

I continued amidst laughter, "So Raynor and I lay over a night in the Bannered Mare, and he takes it upon himself to chat up the innkeeper's daughter." Every self-respecting Nord man in the room shook his head at that. We all knew better. "Now Raynor was a fairly smooth talker, that wasn't the problem." I snorted despite myself. "No, the problem was, the lad she was courting was _Farkas' _size…" Said Wolf Twin roared with laughter, at that. "…while, when he was sixteen, Raynor was more like Ondolemar's size. Only shorter." Laughter from said High Elf.

"So this guy comes butting into the conversation, giving my brother a load of shit, talking trash. Now, both he and my brother were a few tankards deep, and Raynor could usually give shit right back without a problem. It was when the lad started _threatening _him that Raynor got his Falkreath up. And I can assure you, my dear people, there's a reason that's a phrase.

"An all-out barroom brawl breaks out, heedless of the fact that not only were there several women in the room, there was also a child." I saw Farkas clap a palm to his forehead at that statement, and a quick glance about the room told me he wasn't the only one. "I'd like to think I handled myself all right, all things considered. I'm still here, after all. But about halfway through the fight, the bastard pulled a knife on Raynor—who was actually unarmed at the time—and I was in the way." I shrugged, ignoring the looks I was undoubtedly getting. "The innkeeper's wife patched me up, but she wasn't exactly a professional. So I have this lovely memento of the trip." I turned to Tiberia, who was on my left and, mercifully, didn't have any pity in her eyes and added, "Scar or Story?"

Before she could answer, however, a bigger, rougher, more masculine voice interrupted, "You still haven't forgiven me for that, have you?"

My head whipped around to find the source of the noise, and I couldn't help but grin at what I found. A bluish-white spirit—ancestor ghost, I think the Elves call them—was leaning against one of the pillars of Jorrvaskr, dressed in Guild leathers and looking not a day over twenty, without a hint of how he'd died on his ghostly person. "Raynor, _please,_" I said in a mock-disapproving voice. "_You_ were the one who was just a pretty face, remember?"

That loud, life-loving laugh echoed from the rafters. How I missed that sound! Raynor arched his back like a cat to bring himself to his feet, and padded over to where I now stood. I could look him in the eye, now, was just about his size physically, now. He appraised me with a sad sort of smile, but there was an undeniable happiness under there. "Little baby Brynjolf," he commented with the same sort of bittersweet realization, "you've grown up."

"You've been gone a while, brother," I said with the same sort of smirk on my face. "Surely you didn't believe I would stay small forever?"

"No," he conceded, "I suppose not…" His brow furrowed. "Where's your Clan Ring, Bryn? Surely you grew into it."

I had to laugh at that. "Easy, brother! It's with my Intended, as it should be."

The ghostly version of his face hadn't lost its expressive overtones—his shocked expression was absolutely priceless (and that's something, coming from a thief). Raynor put a hand to his head. "Merciful Talos, I _have_ been gone a while…!"

"You don't say?" Regan quipped from across the way.

"Shut up, Regan!" Raynor called without looking back, a wide grin replacing the shock of a moment ago. "And Aisling, I know you're doing something obscene back there…" My other cousin's laugh filled the room. "So Bryn, who's the lucky lass?"

I turned to offer Ty a hand, but she was already on her feet. She held up the hand she wore my Clan Ring on, and not for the first time, I felt a quiet thrum of pride at the sight (and a not-so-quiet thrum of possessiveness that, all things considered, should have been far more common, given my line of work). "Ty," I said to her, "this is my brother, Raynor of Falkreath. Raynor," I turned to him, "this is Tiberia Morwyn of House Redoran." The Nord way to introduce her.

If he was shocked before, now my brother was absolutely flabbergasted. "A Dark Elf?" he managed.

"A Dark Elf," I confirmed.

"Half Dark Elf," Ty amended, "half Nord."

I shot her a questioning look, to which she replied with a small smirk, as Raynor commented, in a blatant attempt to save face, "I've seen your pretty face somewhere before."

"I'm the Dragonborn." Tiberia offered up the information readily enough, though she leveled Raynor with a cutting look at the flattery. "I've already been to Sovngarde once."

Raynor snapped his fingers in recognition. "You defeated the World-Eater."

Tiberia nodded, attempting to hold a stoic face but unable to stop the flush from creeping into her cheeks. "Aye, with the help of some of the Heroes of Sovngarde."

Raynor snorted softly, glancing to me. "Brynjolf always did have all the luck in the family.

_But you, one might say was born to be a Nightingale. _Karliah's words came flooding back to me. "Luck's got nothing to do with it," I replied automatically.

Raynor roared with laughter once more, and clapped me on the shoulder (and somehow made contact…). "It is good to see you well, brother. Stick around Nirn a while, would you? Enough of our family is in cairns already."

I couldn't help but glance to Ty. "I intend to."

Raynor smiled that bittersweet smile once more, and nodded once to me before shuffling off to talk with Regan and Aisling and his former Guildsiblings. It wasn't until we'd reclaimed our seats that I said to Tiberia, once more, "Scar or Story, love?" Whoops, that was supposed to be 'lass.'

Ty swirled the contents of her mug around a moment as she thought on it, then said, "Scar." She set down the pewter in her hand and stood, shrugging off the straps of her Guild cuirass and unlatching the claps holding it shut at the throat and just below as she went. She pulled the whole thing over her head, and the joking wolf-whistles and catcalls gave way to—as they always did—shocked gasps and petitions to various deities at the sight of what lay beneath her armor.

Tiberia Morwyn hadn't lived an easy life, and it showed on her skin. There were the twin scars on her lower back and stomach, perfect half-moons of blotchy, bluish-white scar tissue, ropy and raised, where Alduin had chomped down on her in Sovngarde. There were, on her arms in the gap between bracer and armor, various wounds received from axe and sword. They had clearly been healed with varying amounts of success—some were thin, white lines, and others were ragged and raw-looking, like the one on my face. Some scars disappeared beneath her breast band, only to reappear near her collarbone, and others disappeared into her leggings. But none of these were the one she was pointing to. No, Tiberia half-turned her back to the room, pointing to the four parallel lines between her shoulder blades—jagged, raw lines of white scar tissue—that could only come from claws.

"When I joined the Companions," she threw over her shoulder, "Vilkas was pack alpha..."

Something of note, when Tiberia starts telling a war story, even the most hardened, jaded veterans sit up and take notice. Or at least shut up (here's looking at you, Delphine). I am no exception. I love Ty's war stories, they're like legends come to life. However, I _always _get distracted when she does this for her Scar or Story tale, at least for part of it. Why? Well, there's the obvious reason that her heavy armor always hides and her Guild armor only hints at (oh, bite me, I'm only a man), and then there's the fact that all the skin she's suddenly showing is _blue._

The fact that Tiberia is blue has been, for the entirety of our relationship, a source of fascination and confusion for me. The latter comes from the fact that, on the one hand, blue isn't a natural color for a Nord. It denotes frostbite or too much time in the Sea of Ghosts. But on the other, Dark Elves are _supposed _to be that color. If Ty's skin is pink somewhere, it means she's been burned. The fascination, however, is what made this pickpocket's fingers want to dance across the cerulean expanse endlessly.

I was snapped into reality by the end of Tiberia's explanation: "…And Vilkas was so furious he almost immediately changed into the wolf—and I wasn't far behind because I'm not stupid. We grappled as wolves for time, neither of us willing to give up because we're just too damn stubborn. But finally, I had his neck between my jaws, and he was forced to submit."

I glanced to Vilkas, who had his nose buried in his tankard. He wouldn't make eye contact with anyone in the room—even the spirits—and that's when I knew, whatever came next, Vilkas was deeply ashamed of it. Because of his actions or because he hurt Ty, I didn't know quite then. "Soon as he surrendered," Ty continued, "I let him go. And that _would_ have been the end of it, had Aela not made a crack about his manhood." She shot Aela a deeply disapproving glare, and across the way, so did Farkas. "He went for Aela, who leapt out of range of his claws. But even as she did so, even as I started to feel myself change back, I slammed into Vilkas, skull to skull." She illustrated with the heel of one hand and the back of the other.

"Stupid me thought he was dazed—after all, I was. I turned to disappear back into the Underforge, and suddenly I feel this burning pain lash across my back." Across the way, Vilkas buried his face in his hands. "I tell you, nothing cuts so close as a werewolf's claws." Ty pulled her cuirass back over her head as she rounded out her story. "But mercifully, Danica Pure-Spring is a talented healer, and I managed to get away with just those." She gestured to her back, pausing in the middle of donning her armor once more. "And that's how I became Alpha of this pack." She gestured to Farkas and Aela, to Vilkas. "And how I've stayed." She turned to the Elf sitting on her left, a few feet away. "Scar or Story, Ravyn?"

"And isn't it a proud moment for a mother to hear that her daughter is a werewolf?" commented a cool, commanding voice in the crisp, Dunmeri accent. Ty's had been dulled by her time abroad, but this one was more akin to Neva's—consciously and meticulously kept. "And _unembarrassed _to undress before a room of strangers?"

I could practically see the wolf inside Ty raise its hackles. "Get out," she ordered the spirit in a tone that booked no room for argument.

The ghost woman was standing just beside the fire, dressed in a formal gown a few years out of date. It was easy enough to tell that her facial features had been sharply cut in life, and she was almost painfully thin. She folded her arms at Ty's order. "Is that any way to speak to your mother?"

"I think it would be wise to oblige, Acacia," Karliah murmured.

Acacia? Shor's bones, that was Tiberia's mum standing there.


	88. All Becomes Legend, Part 2

**Hey all, here's the second half. :) As always, a major thank you to all you wonderful readers, lurkers, and reviewers. :) And yo! HereLies! Toss some popcorn my way, eh? XD **

**The non-PM crew:**

**We Know: I'm glad I could help :)**

**Lyriel: It's like you've read my mind.**

**Guest: thank you :) yeah, Delphine's kind of a cold bitch, but y'know, she sort of has to be. and Avalon has a plan! No worries :)**

**Onward.**

**-)**

"Taking orders from my youngest, are you?" Lady Acacia hissed in Karliah's direction. "I see you've moved down in the world, cousin."

Karliah's facial expression hardened. "I obey my Guildmaster, yes. As it should be."

"_Guildmaster?!" _Lady Acacia was practically seething as she whirled to face Tiberia. "Have you no _honor!?"_

When Ty spoke, her voice was edged in death, and though she did not shout, the Thu'um boomed with every syllable: "Before accusing another, look to yourself for flaws. Now _get out, _before I _throw _you out."

"Ty," I said uneasily, knowing full well I was painting a target on my back for this, "if she's here, then there's unfinished business it would be wise to discuss. Outside."

Lady Acacia let out a condescending 'humph!' "It appears not all Nords are backwoods beasts."

"How dare you," Tiberia growled, and then she dropped into a flurry of bitter Dunmeris, accompanied by a repeated gesture I didn't recognize, but given how angry Ty sounded, _had _to be obscene. She would brush the backs of her fingers under her chin once, then twice and extend the fingers out towards her target (in this case, her mother). More often than not, this was accompanied by a glob of spit.

By the end of her tirade, every Dunmer in the room had a shocked expression and either a hand clapped over her mouth, or a hand to his head. With my working knowledge of Dunmeris, I had recognized a few of Ty's favorite curses and insults, but not enough to understand what she was saying. I leaned slightly towards Ravyn Imyan, asking quietly, "What did she just say?"

The ex-Tong assassin was just shaking his head. "I don't feel quite comfortable translating that, Brynjolf."

"The big picture?"

Ravyn had his palm on his forehead. "The big picture? Tiberia is absolutely furious, and is basically calling Acacia a traitor to their House. That's the most grievous insult…"

"…A Dunmer can give," I finished with him. "Yes, I know."

I glanced back to where the Lady Acacia stood, and her spirit was absolutely stunned. Acacia spat something in Dunmeris, and Ravyn murmured to me, "My daughter swears like a heathen whore! Is this what they prize in Skyrim?"

Tiberia snapped something back, also in Dunmeris, and Ravyn said to me, "And yet you still claim me as _yours."_

Ty then drew in a calming breath, and the Thu'um shook the rafters with her next statement: "Get. _Out!" _Dust settled over our heads, having been shaken loose from the rafters. "Or so help me Azura, I will banish you to the Deadlands!" Another shower of sawdust.

"Tiberia!" Karliah exclaimed, clearly appalled. She looked to me with pleading eyes, silently asking for help.

Ty spared her cousin a passing glance. "You know I'd do it."

"Timid little Tiberia?" Lady Acacia smirked. "Hardly."

I could see Neva's manner in her mother, and I could see where Tiberia's self-deprecation came from, in that statement alone. "You don't know what I would do," the Dragonborn hissed. "Stop pretending you know me. Now _get out! _I will not ask you again!"

Since I already had the target on my back and all, I felt no qualms interjecting, "The only way she's leaving, Ty, is if you go with her." I took a few steps forward. "There's bad blood between you; that isn't going to solve itself by sweeping it under the rug." Nods from most of the warriors in the room, a couple mages, and very few thieves.

Both of the Ladies Morwyn whirled on me, and my immediate reaction was to reach for the axes in my belt. Lady Acacia smirked at the knee-jerk reaction. "This one knows when he's out of his league."

"Brynjolf," Tiberia said through clenched teeth to keep herself from Shouting, "you're not helping."

"I'd say he is," Ondolemar noted from his well-fortified position behind a table.

Lady Acacia's brow furrowed. "Ondolemar of Alinor, is that you?"

He bowed his head, Dunmeri style. "'Tis indeed, milady."

"Malacath's beard…" I assumed that was the family friendly version of Tiberia's trusty '_Sheogorath's balls!'_

"Go on, Tiberia," I said to her, not so gently nudging her in the direction of the door. "It's the Witches' Festival; you know the spirits aren't going anywhere."

I could feel the Lady Acacia's ghostly stare boring into my back at the familiarity between her daughter and myself. "Again, the Nord speaks sense."

"I have nothing to say to you," Tiberia spat in her mother's general direction, "that I haven't already. So go."

I lost my patience. "_Dammit, _Tiberia! Talos help me, I will drag you out there myself!"

She smirked. "I'd like to see you try."

I needed no more of an invitation. In the same amount of time it took for Ty to draw her sword (not that she did, but that's the timeframe we're talking, here), I hooked my foot behind her knee and yanked, sending Ty crashing to the floor. I caught her before she crash landed, and slung her over my shoulder. I heard Farkas' laugh above everyone else's.

"_Really, _Brynjolf?" she snapped, slamming a fist into my chest, sideways.

Had that not been a glancing blow, she'd've knocked the wind out of me. Lass doesn't even know her own strength. "Hey now." I camouflaged the discomfort with my usual good-natured sarcasm as I made my way to the door. "You had the chance to walk out under your own power." I threw the next statement over my shoulder: "Lady Morwyn, are you joining us?"

I heard her ask, "Is this… normal behavior between them?"

And just about the entirety of the Guild reply, "Pretty much, yeah." Made me figure Lady Acacia had been talking to Karliah.

Once outside, I set Ty on her feet once more, earning myself another blow to the chest just for spite. The rain had stopped for the moment, leaving the air thick but clean. The ghostly form of Lady Acacia was not far behind, gliding over the flagstones and trailing blue mist. She fixed me with a hard stare as she passed, pausing to remark, "Kindly refrain from manhandling my daughter in the future, would you?"

"Husband," I said drily. "I trump you."

Mostly, that came out of my mouth for the reaction from the phantasm—and what a beautiful one it was. Her jaw actually dropped, her eyes going wide enough to pop out of their sockets (had she been living). She whirled on her youngest daughter a moment later. "You married a _Nord?!"_

"You've got no right to bitch at me on that front," Tiberia snapped in reply. "At least I married him before jumping into bed, yeah?" Not technically one-hundred percent true, but it was in the sense of how Ty's mom jumped into bed with a Nord.

I got the sense that Lady Acacia Indoril Morwyn had been someone who always knew what to say, but I'll be a horker's uncle if that statement didn't knock her speechless. "You've got no right," Lady Acacia finally managed to get out after a few moments of agonizing silence.

Tiberia quirked an eyebrow. "I'm here, am I not? And—funny thing—I'm not pregnant." She shrugged hugely, a gesture clearly meant to be sarcastic.

"Curious, isn't it," Lady Acacia remarked acidly, "that a child would mock her own birth?"

"I'm a _bastard." _Ty's accompanying laugh was black as night, dark as sin. "I don't even rightly carry the name Morwyn—not a drop of their blood runs in my veins. Why _wouldn't _I mock the inability of my politician mother to finish a job? Why _wouldn't _I laugh her in face? It's just too damn funny!" She spread her arms wide. "The Elven Supremacist has a daughter who's half human? Oh, the irony is just _stunning." _

Lady Acacia's ghostly body went rigid. "Hush, Tiberia!"

"I will not be silenced by the likes of you," the Dovahkiin snarled in reply.

The ghost of Lady Acacia shrunk back a tad from her daughter's ire. Too frightened, too timid to have done so in her early life, Ty's rage was being unleashed in her adult life. (Shit, I'd be terrified too, if I were Acacia. Being on the receiving end of a Dragon's wrath isn't something any of us with a sense of self-preservation set out to do.) "Tiberia, hush…!" Lady Acacia tried.

"_You _hush!" Ty snapped. "This has been swept under the rug for too many years! All this time I wasted, I could have…" Abruptly, Tiberia stopped, drew in a long, slow breath, and then continued. "If I start now, I don't think I'll ever stop. So just _go, _mother. It's better for everyone."

If that isn't a terribly sad statement, then I don't know what is.

"Do you truly believe that?" Lady Acacia asked quietly.

Tiberia and her mother was almost exactly the same height, and so the full weight of the living Dunmer's gaze was leveled on the spirit one. "Do I have any reason not to?"

Lady Acacia sighed, loosing little more than noise into the winds. Vaguely, I remembered Ty telling me once that the frost she exhaled was often offered up as a prayer. "All I wanted for you," the Lady said, sounding so very old and tired, "was your safety. I loved you even as I loved your sisters; there was no distinction. I raised you as I had Neva and Avalon, with sword and spell, by governess and Guild's master. But the older you got, the more you looked like Stormcloak. It was… difficult."

"Why would you set up an escape for me through Karliah?" Tiberia asked, and I could tell the question had been bouncing around in her mind for a while.

"I never wanted you dead, daughter," Lady Acacia said quietly. "If my mistake was made known…"

"Enough of that," I said at once.

Both Ty and her mother jumped, as though they'd completely forgotten I was standing there. "By mistake, I don't mean _you_, Tiberia," Lady Acacia said at once.

Ty shot her a look. "What _do _you mean then, mother dear?"

"The circumstances that _created _you, Tiberia, were the mistake. The fact that Azura blessed me with you after…" The spirit sighed. "I shouldn't have done it, and I deeply regretted for the rest of my life, but I never blamed you."

"No," Ty agreed blackly, "you just vacated Morrowind every chance you got after that and left me to Neva's tender mercies. You know, you're _damn _lucky Avalon was the bigger person in your never-ending argument about her profession, or I'd be absolutely _mad."_

The mention of madness was like a bucket of cold water dumped over Lady Acacia's head. Tiberia noticed it, as well. "What?" she mocked. "Afraid of a little madness? Well then, what a miracle you didn't kill me after Sheogorath stepped in!" She threw up her hands in exasperation.

"Amory had already given his life," Lady Acacia murmured, only half-aware.

Amory? My brow furrowed. That name sounded familiar.

Whatever scathing retort Ty'd had waiting in the wings had been knocked on its arse by that comment. "What?"

"Amory offered the traditional sacrifice to the Four Corners when you were born," Lady Acacia expanded, sounding much more _here _than she had a moment ago, "but Sheogorath appeared to him, told him to save his breath. Said that the child was his. But he offered my husband a choice."

"He's more my father than Ulfric ever was," Tiberia retorted hotly. "You can refer to him as such."

_The Lady Acacia and the Lord Amory… _that's why the names sounded familiar. Karliah had told stories of her family in Morrowind to the Guild, which, in turn, had been passed down to Raynor and me when we were lads. Those names were almost never separated, and as such, were treated as one entity, like Mercer and Karliah, Ceylon and Juri, Farkas and Vilkas.

Lady Acacia, for the umpteenth time in so many minutes, looked surprised at Tiberia's abrasive orders. "Lord Sheogorath offered your father a choice," Lady Acacia said. "Either _he _could walk the Golden Road, or you would." Ty's eyes widened, the fury temporarily replaced by shock. "I don't think I need to tell you what he chose."

"He withstood the call to the Shivering Isles for seven years? By Talos, that's impressive."

Lady Acacia's spirit wavered for a split-second. "By… _Talos?"_

"If you want to get technical, we're related," Tiberia said flatly. "_Dovah _never really die, they are only lost to time." Something clicked in the lass' mind. "Which reminds me—why in the Sixteen Realms of _Oblivion _am I named after Tiber Septim?!"

"Language, little one," Lady Acacia corrected mildly.

Ty folded her arms across her sternum. "You're avoiding the bloody question."

Her mother ignored the obvious attempt at goading her into a frenzy. "Why? Tiberia, think about it. Even if I never could tell you of your origins, if Neva and Avalon never _did _tell you, you would have something to start with. You're so very curious; sooner or later, you would have wanted to know why you had such a strange name, and why your face wasn't purely Elven." She sighed. "You are named after the most revered Nord god because, little one, who but a Nord would even bother with such a thing?"

"That's truth," I supplied, and _again, _Ty and her mother jumped.

Lady Acacia put a hand to her heart (or, rather, where her heart would be). "Dear Azura, you've startled me, boy!"

"His name is Brynjolf," Ty informed her mother flatly. "If you want to get technical: Brynjolf of Falkreath, Great House Redoran."

Later, I learned that marrying into a Dunmer family brings you into their Great House, even as they join yours. In essence, you join their Clan, while still keeping ties to your own. Hearing myself introduced the Elven way was six kinds of bizarre. It was weird enough remembering to do it to Ty's name when introducing her to people—hearing my name, a Nord name, in that format was downright strange.

What neither Tiberia nor I expected was Lady Acacia to drop into a small Dunmeri curtsey. "Good to meet you, Brynjolf of Falkreath. I am Lady Acacia, House Morwyn, Great House Redoran."

"Mother," Tiberia ventured distantly, "are you… apologizing?"

"Nonsense!" Lady Acacia scoffed. "Merely showing good manners—which, once upon a time, you had as well, daughter."

Tiberia was laughing in disbelief. "You're _apologizing! _By the Nine, I never thought I'd see the day…!"

But Lady Acacia was no longer listening to her daughter. Instead, her ghostly gaze was focused on me. "You'll take care of my daughter, won't you?" she asked.

I nodded. "Bet on it, milady."

"And protect her?"

"With my life. 'Course she doesn't really _need_ protecting. Perk of being the hero, I s'pose."

Lady Acacia smiled wanly. "I suppose that's fair." Then it was replaced by her usual, sterner countenance as she turned to her youngest daughter once more. "Well Tiberia, I suppose you could have done a lot worse for yourself."

"Like Cyrano?" Ty shot right back.

This time, Lady Acacia _did _laugh, a weak and underused sound, even in the afterlife. "Yes, Tiberia, like Cyrano Feliciano."

-)

Ty stood outside talking to her mother for a little while longer, less angrily and about less important things. The Lady Acacia, however, did not linger. She and her daughter said their goodbyes—still tense, but mending—and her ethereal form dissipated into the winds. By the time Ty and I returned to the main hall of Jorrvaskr, Athis had broken out his fiddle, Aisling her flute, and half the mead hall was dancing wherever they found room. Scar or Story had been abandoned in the absence of the Dragonborn, apparently.

A few more spirits had appeared during our absence. Their ghostly forms floated between those of us who were still corporeal, trailing mist and laughter. Tiberia immediately recognized several, from the half-blind, wolf-armed Skjor, who had apparently run with the Companions when she'd first joined ranks, to their former Harbinger himself, Kodlak Whitemane.

"Hail, Kodlak!" Tiberia called with a grin, thumping a fist to her chest in the formerly-Stormcloak-now-just-Stormblade salute.

The old man turned, and his smile was grandfatherly. "Hail, Harbinger!" he returned the salute. "And what a fine one you have been!"

Ty immediately flushed. "I wouldn't go that far."

Kodlak clapped a hand to Ty's shoulder, which must have been a strange sensation. "Tiberia Morwyn," he said, bowing his head slightly, "had I gotten to know you even just a bit better, I would have seen the signs that you weren't necessarily suited for the position, either. But…"

"But I was all you had," Tiberia finished, and Kodlak nodded. "I don't blame you, Harbinger. You had to make an executive decision."

He smiled wanly. "I had no doubt you would do what was asked of you."

Tiberia nodded. "I always do."

Kodlak just laughed. "You've become a strong woman, Morwyn. More so than I would have thought possible, when you came to us all those years ago. I know you'll make the right decision, when the time comes."

Tiberia's brow furrowed. "Are you in league with Mercer…?"

"You think I get out of the Evergloam much?!" the former Guildmaster called from his vantage point on the steps across the room. He had one ghostly arm thrown loosely across Karliah's shoulders.

Tiberia turned to crack something back, but stopped upon noticing what I just had. "I haven't the faintest idea how he's doing that," Karliah offered, sounding like she was entirely bewildered but had just given up making sense out of it.

"Want to know a secret?" Mercer replied. "Neither do I."

Tiberia's laugh echoed in the mead hall almost as loudly as her Thu'um. "Hey, Morwyn," Vilkas interjected from where he sat with his brother, Aela, and Skjor, "I have a question for you."

Tiberia's eyebrow quirked into her hairline. "That's never a good opening, coming from you, Vilkas."

It was a major display of growth that Vilkas just laughed at that. "Look, Tiberia, we all know you're a shitty thief, so have you even _stolen _anything, or are you just the muscle?"

Ty just shot him a look. "Oblivion take you; I stole an Elder Scroll."

"_What?!" _exclaimed Delvin Mallory from all the way across the room.

Tiberia smirked. "An. Elder. Scroll."

"Can you start _that _story from the beginning?" Vex asked, sounding almost offended.

Ty threw back her head and downed the rest of her tankard, and began. "So, the leader of the Greybeards—his name's Paarthurnax—told me that if I read an Elder Scroll on the summit of the Throat of the World, I could quite possibly learn a Shout that could defeat Alduin…" and she launched into a story about scaling Blackreach, the supposedly mythical Dwarven Capital, with Ralof as auxiliary.

I appraised my lass over the rim of my tankard as I leaned against one of the pillars supporting the roof. She became so animated when telling stories about the Dragon Crisis, almost makes me wish I'd known her then. She doesn't usually talk about being the Dragonborn anymore, and I'm not sure she ever realy did. But when she does, the stories are worth sitting up and taking notice. It's how I knew she was truly part _Dovah_, and that the legends weren't exaggerating.

"Look at her," Raynor commented to me as he joined me against the pillar. "She's already a legend."

"And making more every day," I replied.

Raynor grinned, that same shit-eating grin that I'd grown up with. "Some men have all the luck, 'ey little brother?"

I laughed despite myself, and couldn't help but flick a glance in Mercer's direction. "That joke gets a lot less funny when you're a Nightingale."

Raynor cracked up at that. "Aye, I can see that."

Silence fell between us for a moment, and it was almost like all those times we'd sat awake in the Flagon. That is, if he weren't blue, it would have been. "You're leaving, aren't you?" I asked quietly.

Raynor nodded sadly. "I can feel Shor calling me back home. Mum and Da send their regards, by the way."

A sad smile took over before my usual smirk could, and I had to look away. "Tell them I say hello."

Raynor clapped me on the shoulder (and I'd been right, it _was _a strange sensation). "I'm proud of you, Bryn."

My real smile was back, now. "Thank you, brother." I turned to face him, but he was already gone.

-)

As the spirits began to shove off for home, so did the living. If it was a peculiar thing to watch the living and the dead interact, it was even more peculiar to watch them say their goodbyes. Watching Skjor tell Farkas to take care of Aela, he'd be looking after them from the Hunting Grounds. Seeing Mercer kiss Karliah's forehead in the style of a Dunmeri benediction, and salute the current Guildmaster, Stormblade-style. Observing Kodlak giving Vilkas one last bit of mentorly advice before disappearing.

Ty was absolutely drunk as a skunk—"Impressive, given that she has the Blood…" Vilkas had commented—and so I was the one to help her stumble back to her home, Breezehome. Or at least, I _was_ helping her until we got out of sight of Jorrvaskr. "I'm not an invalid," she laughed, brushing me off. "I can walk."

It took me longer that I'd like to figure it out. "Were you just _acting _drunk?"

Tiberia grinned, just a bit too brightly to be genuinely. "Absolutely. Come now; have you ever _seen _an Elf drunk? I'm just…" she sighed. "…frankly, I'm exhausted and don't feel like sleeping around fifty other people. Oi, when this damnable battle is finished, I plan to sleep for at least a week afterwards…" I couldn't help but grin as she led the way back to her personal residence. "Here's hoping Lydia's with Claudius and Calder's asleep," she said, crossing her fingers as she unlocked the door.

I don't know what on Nirn possessed me to kiss her right there in the doorway, but I suspect it begins with an 'm' and ends with an 'ead.' When we broke apart, Ty was just laughing. "If that's your way of asking to stay, I think I like it."

"Ever the articulate one," I freely admitted, following her inside.

One of the Housecarls had made sure the hearth fire was roaring, and Tiberia instinctively stopped in front of it. She always stood so close to open flames; I'm shocked she's never singed herself. "You alright?" I asked quietly, drawing her to me.

"I'm just cold," was all she said. "As ever," she added as a rueful afterthought.

"Then maybe you should just get to bed…?"

"Yeah, maybe." That was it. No sarcastic crack, no insult, no shit for al the times we've had to do this at an inn… nothing. Shor's bones, she _was _tired.

Five or so minutes later, she'd taken my advice—and so had I. She was nestled close to my heart, my hands were about her waist, and our foreheads were resting against each other. Her skin was like ice. "Why me, Bryn?" the question came out of nowhere.

"Hmm?" I glanced down at the Elf in my arms, only to find myself caught in her gaze.

"Why is it me, here?" she elaborated.

I could have taken that the literal route, or the smartass route, but pre-battle Tiberia was a different Beast than normal Tiberia. I opted for the blunt truth—just, delivered with a heavy dosage of humor. "Hell, Ty, I don't know. It couldn't _possibly _be because you're beautiful, bloody brilliant in a mad sort of way, a smartass just like me, or, quite simply, my best friend?"

Silence for a moment. "No," Ty finally admitted with a soft little snort, "I suppose not."

I pressed a kiss into her forehead to hide my grin. "Go to sleep, little Elf."

"Bryn, I swear, this is the last damn time you're getting a warning…!"

I just had to laugh at that. "That's my lass." Been wondering where she'd gotten off to.

Tiberia was asleep not long after that, her breathing regulating to a steady rhythm. But I laid awake a while longer, toying with her unbound hair and wondering how on Nirn I was so lucky.


	89. Circles in Circles

**Hey all, hope you had a Merry Christmas and a happy New Year :) And as always, a big thank you to all my awesome readers, lurkers, and reviewers :)**

**The non-PM crew:**

**We know: Ah, don't be jealous. Get to work :)**

**Guest: Hmm. It was supposed to be a bit of comic relief, true… but not all of it.**

**Lyriel: She actually bit him, but yeah. That should SO be an option :3**

**Stephan: No worries, glad you're back! And I do hope so :3**

**Martina Killa: Good to meet you, sister-Elf :) Haha I'm glad you enjoy my work. And all in a day? Now that's impressive :) Also, everything I found said Dark Elves don't live much past about 200 so, that's why. And Ty would have been less than a year old when the whole Snow-Veil debacle happened. She wouldn't have really been in a state to go after him :)**

**Onward.**

**-)**

The next morning, despite having crashed in Breezehome, I was back in Jorrvaskr bright and early, knocking on doors and just generally being a nuisance. No one had gotten so drunk their hangovers were incurable with a bit of bacon grease and Sapphire's tarlike coffee, and that was good. Ulfric was nearly on top of us—today was the day.

"Let's go, let's _go!" _I bellowed as I strode down the hall in the undercroft, banging on doors and singing _the Song of the Dragonborn_ at the top of my lungs in the original Draconic. "Today's the day, Soldiers! I can feel it in my bones. I want everyone fully armed and armored and ready to go at a moment's notice! As soon as we get the signal, we _move out!"_

_ Damn_, it feels good to be in charge sometimes.

I kicked open the doors to the Harbinger's quarters at the end of the hall with the sort of single-minded determination that pre-battle always gives me. I slammed them shut behind me before I strode over to the chest at the foot of my bed, withdrawing from within the only armor appropriate for this day—not Glass, not Guild, not Wolf, and not even Daedric—Dragon Bone.

First, on went the Dragon Skin underthings, a dull grey-green and light as leather, strong as ebony. Over that went the cuirass of clean white dragon's bones, with the jagged spires for pauldrons like my Daedric armor. I yanked on my set of dragon skin-and-bone boots, and then laced up the bracers. I buckled my swordbelt over my hips—my Ebony Sword of the Blaze, Dawnbreaker, and the Nightingale Blade—and slid Brynjolf's Orcish dagger into my boot. I fitted a silver-and-moonstone circlet over my brow, and felt my magicka surge in response to the enchantment. Lastly, I fastened my Amulet of Talos—not Uflric's, as I'd lost that during my incarceration in the Thalmor embassy—around my neck, sliding it under my armor to keep it out of the way. The Thu'um pulsated in response to the metal now resting on my skin.

After another moment or two of searching, I found a tub of warpaint and strode to the mirror Aela had given me when I'd first become Harbinger. I dipped two fingers into the thick, orange paint and drew my customary design. The one that began under my eyes, then veered off sharply down under my chin. I smirked at my reflection. Now _this _was the real Tiberia.

As I readied myself, I realized I truly wore the skin of a _dovah_, now. 'Twas a curious feeling, not unlike flying on Odahviing's back. When I'd forged this armor, I'd painstakingly carved Daedric runes across the cuirass, and in battle, when the mud splattered and blood flew, they would stand out starkly.

What did they say? _Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, naal ek zin los vahriin…_

This armor was so much heavier than the Guild Armor I'd become accustomed to over the past year-or-so, but it felt more like I was becoming Tiberia Morwyn once more. I'm never entirely comfortable in leather armor, it's too easy to penetrate. Heavy armor, though, is much more difficult. And I pity the fool who attempts to run a sword through solid dragon bone.

I strode out of the Harbinger's quarters with my head held high, and went back through the undercroft, banging on doors and poking my head into every room and occasionally helping buckle some armor or finish a warpaint design. My comrades from the Riften Guild were the most anxious, despite having fought in the Battle of Riften. My colleagues from the College were on edge as well, since most of them had never fought much more than the occasional wolf or sabre cat. The Companions were the only ones who seemed at ease. After all, they dealt in death every day.

I came upon the Clansmen gearing up for battle with woad, and got wrangled into helping Aisling draw across her shoulders because neither her brother nor her cousin felt even remotely comfortable doing so. "…And I've always mixed my woad this color," Brynjolf scoffed, shaking the bowl of blue plant dye to illustrate his point. "What are you on about, Regan?"

"I just find it funny," his cousin replied without pausing painting, "that your battle paint and your woman _are the same color."_

I had to laugh at that, and Aisling yelped, "Careful with the design!"

"Call it foreshadowing if you like, lad," Brynjolf shot back to Regan. "I just call it coincidence."

"Thieves don't believe in coincidence," I pointed out.

Bryn cocked an eyebrow in my general direction (which, as always, looked hilarious under the woad). "Who asked you?"

I rolled my eyes as I left the three of them to their painting (Aisling was finished up). I continued my journey down the undercroft hallway, continuing to answer questions, lash armor, and offer insights as to what warpaint looked scary and what just looked stupid. I was surprised to find Vilkas alone in his quarters—no Farkas, no Aela. "Hail, General Stormblade," he greeted, calm as you please, as he fitted the chestplate of his Wolf Armor together. The nonchalant façade was broken, however, when he asked, a tad sheepishly, "Would you mind…?"

"Not at all." I strode over to where he stood, my armor clattering together with each step, keeping time like bone chimes.

As I tightened the leather straps that held the armor of the Circle together, Vilkas commented, "That's new armor."

I nodded while in his line of sight. "Forged it from the bones of an Elder Dragon five years ago. Didn't have the chance to wear it here until it was stolen from me."

He snorted at that. "It suits you."

"I should hope so," I laughed, clapping him on the shoulder, letting him know he was suited up. "I am part _dovah, _after all."

Vilkas' crooked smile lit up his face. "That reminds me—Dovahkiin, would you do me the honor being my Shield-Sister today?"

I nodded. "Wouldn't have it any other way, Shield-Brother."

I padded further down the hall, continuing to be the bane of most everyone's existence, and that's when I ran into Karliah in the Whelps' room alone, strapping on her Nightingale Armor with a practiced ease. "Hello, cousin," she greeted with a smile. "Checking up on everyone, are you?"

"Just about," I replied with a characteristic smirk as I leaned against the doorframe. "I do it before every battle I command."

Karliah's smile disappeared under her facemask. "Admirable."

I smirked. "I suppose." It only grew wider when I realized something. "So cousin, tell me—what's it like getting cozy with a ghost?"

Karliah looked like she was about to slap me, then thought better of it and merely answered, "Cold."

I smirked. "Of course it was."

"Also, he was my best friend for years, s'wit." She smacked me smartly upside the head and I cracked up. "It's hardly getting cozy—just old habits."

I disappeared upstairs next to find something to eat (battle on an empty stomach is just awful), and I ran into Vex on the stairs. She was once more dressed in the armor of the Legate, which she wore with ease and a certain amount of pride. "Listen up," she said, with a hand at my shoulder to stop me. "I've was talking to Vilkas and Tolfdir—and Brynjolf, before he disappeared to go paint himself blue—and we all think you should ask your friend the dragon if he'd be willing to fight. I forget his name, could never pronounce it. Something that started with an o, maybe?"

"Odahviing," I supplied with a grin. "And sure, I'll ask him. Send some runners to alert the town, make sure no one panics when a large, winged beast lights down."

Vex nodded. "You got it, Guildmaster General."

I smirked as I continued up the stairs. "I think I like the sound of that. Oh, and Vex?" I half-turned back to face her.

She did the same. "Yeah?"

"As much as you despised your time in the Legion, the armor suits you. You'll be a warrior yet."

Vex's smirk was a bit less forced. "Thank you, Tiberia." Even Vex was nervous about the upcoming battle, it seemed.

The main hall of Jorrvaskr was filled wall-to-wall with people. I found a spot against the wall alongside Delvin Mallory, resplendent in his Mages' Robes—and who would have ever thought? "Mornin', Tiberia," he greeted. "What can I do for you?"

"Just wondering," I said as I swirled the contents of my coffee mug around, "if you planned on fighting alongside the mages today, or with Brynjolf?"

"With Bryn, o' course. That boy can hardly look after '_imself_ in a fight, now can 'e?"

"Delvin, he's a fully-grown Nord. I think he's fine."

That earned a laugh out of Bryn's godsfather. "Even Clansmen need a Battle-Brother." I nodded in agreement, pausing to survey the room as I took a sip from my mug. "Bryn does that, too," Delvin commented.

I glanced over at him. "What?"

"Surveys the room over the rim of 'is mug like that." Delvin gestured to the cup in my hands.

I shrugged. "Guess he's just rubbed off on me…" Too late, I realized how Delvin would take that. "_And don't you dare turn that phrase into something dirty."_

Delvin threw up both hands, proclaimed, "You're just as _fun _as Mercer!" and disappeared off to go find Vex or something.

"Hey, you're finally awake," Ralof greeted with a laugh as he took up Delvin's spot. "Was beginning to think you were never going to get up."

I thumped his shoulder. "I slept in my own bed; give me a break."

Ralof waggled his eyebrows. "You _and _a certain other person who shall remain nameless."

I thumped him harder. "Go die in a ditch, Ralof."

He laughed. "Tiberia, please. If I didn't die in Blackreach, a ditch is hardly going to cut it."

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help but smile. "We made a pretty kickass team, didn't we? Those Falmer never knew what hit them."

"Oh, of course! Sort of like when Gerdur first saw us, fresh out of Helgen. Covered in ash and grime from head-to-toe and tried as all get-out."

I burst out laughing. "And your poor sister didn't know what to make of us at _all."_

He pulled a face, and imitated his sister's voice, "'Ralof? What's happened? We heard this awful noise coming from Helgen! And… who is that? A comrade? Or… something more?'" He then dropped back to his own cadence. "She was so confused. I would have found it hilarious if we hadn't almost died the hour before."

"Those were the days, eh?" I took a swig from my coffee mug. "Back when only _one_ great flying lizard was trying to kill us and before we got ourselves so tangled up in Ulfric's politics."

Ralof nodded, his blond hair obscuring his eyes for a moment. "Aye, they were." Then he glanced over at me again. "Hey, are you going to summon your Dragon buddies? Vex mentioned you might."

I nodded. "I'm about to go call Odahviing, yeah. But there is no _summoning; _I'm just asking a favor of a friend."

Ralof bowed in deference. "You'd know, Dragonborn."

I winced. "Come now, don't you start using titles on me."

Ralof snorted. "Sure, sure, Morwyn." He hit me upside the head for good luck.

I set my coffee mug on the main table before pushing open the doors to the Jorrvaskr training yard. I found Farkas and Aela deep in conversation and immediately stopped, and let out a startled "Oh! Sorry!"

Both dropped off whatever they'd been saying and greeted, "Hail, Harbinger."

Seeing them as a couple still didn't register in my head sometimes. It was just so… strange. But then I always get to thinking, and I realize how well suited they really are for each other. They just do what they do and let the rest sort itself out. Admirable, and something I wish I could do.

"Hail, Shield-Siblings," I greeted, still feeling a bit sheepish. "Farkas, could I borrow you a moment? I need to get up on the wall."

He grinned. "Of course, Morwyn." He rose to his feet like a bear waking from sleep, and followed me over to the wall. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because," I said as I scrambled up his back, "I'm calling Odahviing."

"Really?" said my stepladder.

"Mmm," I grunted as I hoisted myself up and onto the wall surrounding Jorrvaskr. As high as I could really get, given the circumstances. I hoped Vex's runners had gotten to most of the important people in town, or this was going to get messy. I rose to my feet, drew in a huge breath, and the Thu'um boomed out, "_OD-AH-VIING!"_

He never kept me waiting long. Mere minutes had passed before the large, red-scaled beast dove out of the skies, clouded over as ever, and came to rest atop Jorrvaskr itself. "_DOV-AH-KIIN!" _he greeted. "_Drem, yol, lok!"_

_ "Drem, yol, lok, fahdon," _I returned with a smile.

"Is there to be a _grah?" _he asked. A battle.

I grinned. "_Geh, _as ever. Will you join me?"

He nodded his great scaly head. "As if you even need to ask, _mal briinah." _Little sister.

I bowed, Dunmeri style. "Thank you, _zeymah." _Brother. "We will meet on the plains as soon as Ulfric's men march into view."

Odahviing nodded. "I will be there, _Dovahkiin. _Do not worry." He paused. "Call Paarthurnax, _mal briinah. _He will not want to miss this _grah."_

My brow furrowed. "You think Paarthurnax will want to fight?"

"_Ni," _Odahviing disagreed, "I know." He took to the skies once more, receding into the clouds.

"Call the other one?" Farkas' voice drifted up to me, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Can't hurt," Aela added from her vantage point on the porch.

"I suppose not," I agreed, and once more, I drew in a deep breath. My chest expanded and contracted like a bellows a few times before I get the proper amount of air in to Shout. "_PAAR-THUR-NAX!"_

He took longer than Odahviing, though not by much. It was a very confused Elder Dragon that alighted onto the roof of Jorrvaskr with a great thud and a resonant, "_Drem, yol, lok. _Greetings, _Dovahkiin." _

I bowed as low as I could without losing my rather precarious balance. "_Drem, yol, lok, in." _Master, I called Paarthurnax. And no matter how accomplished in the Thu'um I ever become, I always will.

"You are in need of a _grahzeymahzin," _Paarthurnax noted dryly. An ally (literally, battle-brother-honor. Everything I live my life for). "Why else would you have called me, _mal briinah?"_

"Do not think so little of me, _in," _I replied in a loud, clear voice, akin to his and Odahviing's. "There are _loanne _that need answers, as well." Questions, so very many questions.

"_Krosis. _I did not mean to belittle you."

I nodded, a _dovah's _acceptance of an apology. "There _is _to be a _morokei grah _here, my friend. Will you join me?"

Paarthurnax was silent for a long moment, mulling things over. His tattered wings stirred in the wind in the interim. Finally, he said, _"Geh, Dovahkiin. _It is time the world bowed to my Thu'um once more."

"And a _maar _you shall be!" I agreed with a laugh. A terror. "We will meet on the plains as soon as Ulfric's boys are in view—the ones dressed all in blue, or black and gold."

Paarthurnax bowed his great, scaly head, a gesture that was part nod, part homage. "And you as well, _mal briinah!" _Then… well, if it's possible for a dragon to cock an eyebrow, Paarthurnax did it. "You wear the _qethhe _of mine _zeymah." _The bones of his brothers. Before I could even stammer out a reply, Paarthurnax continued, "This is as it should be. You are _dovah, _Tiberia. It is time you were so to the _jorre." _He took to the skies once more, leaving me to puzzle out why he'd called me by my name. (Dragons _never _do that.)

Only once he was fully out of range did I clamber down the wall again. I made my way back into the main hall of Jorrvaskr with Farkas and Aela, who immediately set about warning my men that yes, there were going to be two, bona fide dragons fighting alongside us. Try not piss yourselves.

"Tiberia!" Brynjolf, now fully painting in woad and dressed in his clan tartan (red and green, pulled me aside. "A courier came by a few minutes ago. Ulfric's been spotted at the edge of the plains."

A feral grin overtook my face as I called to the room, "_TO WAR, GENTLEMEN!"_

-)

We were to defend Whiterun in the plains, not up close and personal with the front gates. And so my men were more-or-less lined up in the traditional formation just below the hill Whiterun sits on. (Or at least, they were so that I could address them. No one fights Mages like that—it's suicide.) I was sitting on Vilkas' shoulders to give a pre-battle speech. Because, of my many faults, my short stature is probably the one I hate the most.

"To war, gentlemen!" I called in my clear, loud, _dovah_-like voice, and my men, this army, roared in response. Dear Azura, they were stir-crazy and aching for a fight!

"It has been an honor—and a _privilege_—serving with all of you!" I continued, and I had to pause in once more for the roar that received to die down. "And so I join you now, not as Beast, but as your Dovahkiin, as your voice in this Civil War. At this moment in time, we are not Man or Mer, Thief or Companion, Soldier or Mage, Hero or Villain. We are one heart, one mind, one voice—one _blade!_

"Aye, it has been my honor to serve Skyrim with all of you, to defend our home, to stand up and remind those arrogant bastards in Alinor that we will not be slienced—_mu fen ni kos nahlot! _This land is _ours. _A false king, a _vojun, _a traitor like Ulfric Stormcloak will not take it from us. We take it now, so that those who will stand here in the years to come will stand as free men. Not slaves to the Aldmeri Dominion, nor slaves to the Nords, nor slaves to their own ambition, but _free, _as a_ dovah _on the wing.

"And many years from now, when your children and their children ask you whom you served under in this great Civil War, how shall you reply? Surely not Stormcloak, for I am not my father. Surely not Lady Morwyn, for I am not my mother or either of my elder sisters. Surely not as Dragonborn, for I am not Talos Stormcrown. No my friends, you will say you served Stormblade, for Stormblade served Skyrim."

The response I received was absolutely deafening—and that's how I knew the truth to my own words.

"Some say I should be made High Queen, when the moot finally meets." No small response of approval, at that. "I am not one of them; I call them bloody idiots." Some scattered laughter at that. "They say that the Savior of Skyrim, the Harbinger, the Guildmaster, the Arch-Mage, the Dragonborn should be no less. But those are just _titles_! In the end, those are just words—meaningless words. What has meaning is _action, _what has meaning is _faith. _Faith in your Shield-Siblings, your cause, and your sword-arm!" Another roar, this one mostly from the Companions. "Ulfric's actions are worthless now, for he has lost his faith! What he has left are words—meaningless words—from the Thalmor. And I will set the world _ablaze _before I let empty words from those murderers determine Skyrim's future!

"I have given my life to this land, to its people, twice before—once as the Slayer of Alduin, and once as Stormcloak General Morwyn—and I give it to you freely once more. Because Skyrim deserves a Hero who wants nothing in return—not power, wealth, glory, or fame—and though I would not presume to call myself that Hero, I'd say I'm a hell of a lot closer than Stormcloak."

More laughter at that, and a lot of "Damn straight!"s and "Aye!"s.

"So when Sovngarde beckons, gentlemen, go forth and heed the call. And when victory is upon us, brothers, we will sing of our fallen."

I drew in a deep breath, and the shadow of a Thu'um boomed out with my final words to my men: "And may Talos guide you, may Stendarr protect you, may Hircine lead you, and may Sheogorath predict you!"


	90. Duel With a Demon

'**Allo. have a chapter :3 and as always, a big thank you to all my wonderful readers, lurkers, and reviewers :)**

**By the way, 800. Eight-**_**HUNDRED **_**reviews. That's absolutely incredible. You guys are the best :D**

**The non-PM crew:**

**Dakk 'Thul—thank you so much for your kind words :) I'm glad you enjoy my writing. And good to see that you had the proper reaction to Cyrano :3**

**Domnovoi: Ah, that's what it's from! Grazie :) I couldn't remember.**

**We know: I'm sure they're better than you think :)**

**Guest: You will know by the end of the story :3**

**Stephan: Thank you! :D**

**Lyriel: Haha, perhaps a bit. And yes, glad to see someone noticed the parallels :3**

**Fallen Maiar: Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy the final battle as much as I did :3**

**Onward.**

**-)**

"YOU CAN STILL SAVE THE LIVES OF MANY, DRAGONBORN!" Ulfric shouted across the field. "SURRENDER, AND YOUR MEN WILL BE SPARED!"

My army was scattered around the outer walls of the city, itching for a fight. Uflric's was across the way, with their backs to the Throat of the World, looking much the same. Mine, dressed in every color under the sun. Uflric's in Stormcloak blue or Thalmor black and gold. I knew my boys would fight until the last man standing, and then come back as ghosts to continue wreaking havoc. Uflric's boys looked like they'd break ranks at the first indication they might lose.

"WITH ALL DUE RESPECT, STORMCLOAK," I shouted back, "KISS MY ARSE!"

And so began the Battle of Whiterun.

I crashed into the first wave, leading the vanguard as always. Dual-swords out, Thu'um flying, spells augmenting when my blades weren't quick enough… this is what I breathe for. The thrill of battle, the adrenaline keeping me in a state of heightened awareness, it's just poetry. Violent, dangerous poetry, but poetry nonetheless.

Vilkas and I were in rare form, and I think it had to do with the re-establishment of our Soul-Bond. We had been fine for the Battle of Riften on skill and muscle memory alone, but this was something else entirely. This was almost clairvoyance, like I knew where he'd strike and therefore what his blind side would be before even _he_ did. And he was likewise for me. This was more than our usual savage harmony; it was a full symphony of devastation.

I hacked and slashed, thrust and parried. Dawnbreaker and my Ebony Sword were twin blurs, gold and black to cut through more of the same. Gallus' Nightingale Blade weighed in at my hip, at the ready should I need its enchantment (stamina and health devouring. Useful in a pinch). Normally I would find three swords to be overkill, but all three were enchanted and getting out of a fight to recharge the blades with soul gems wasn't always easy.

Vilkas lashed out at a Stormcloak soldier just before him, and I laid into the Thalmor about to strike at his side. I drove my Ebony blade deep into the Altmer's gut, and yanked it free, quickly reversing the thrust and my hold on both my swords to slam the blades into the two Stormcloaks welling up from behind me. Before their buddies could recover from the shock, I sprinted forward and hurriedly decapitated two of them before the others realized what was happening. Vilkas cleaved the remaining men clean in half before we both took off, looking for more enemies while our blood was still running hot.

We passed Vex on the way, fierce, steadfast, and strong as if she'd left the legion yesterday. She had just shield-bashed the oncoming elven-armored Thalmor, knocking her senseless, before rushing forward with her Dwarven sword and impaling the Bosmer woman through the ribs. (It seemed Dark Elves were no longer the only non-Altmer enlisting in the Aldmeri Dominion.) Vex's facial expression didn't change as she laid into the next wave of soldiers, just a vicious battle sneer. She fought without a Shield-Sibling, but Legate Octavia Vexus was one of the only people I knew who could get away with that. She was little more than a flash of silvery steel.

We passed Delvin Mallory and Brynjolf on the way, cleaving through rank and file with axe and spell. Delvin was turning men inside out, blasting holes in lines with thunderbolts, conjuring Atronachs of every element, and just generally wreaking havoc in the magical way. Made me proud to call him Battle-Brother, that genuine Breton Battlemage. Brynjolf, meanwhile, was moving so fast he was little more than a blue-grey blur, and his axes were little more than black, glinting metal in the sunlight. His raw-throated battle-cry rose up over the clamor of war, his clan tartan was stained with blood that wasn't his. Brynjolf and Delvin fought in the classic warrior/mage style, where the warrior rushed forward and took out as many opponents as possible while the mage hung back and blasted the remainder to Oblivion.

We passed Athis and Njada on the way, fighting back-to-back in their usual style, swords out and shields up. Their petty arguments were forgotten on the battlefield, where all that mattered was the Shield-Sibling at your back and the enemy before you. Njada's shrill battle-taunt floated over to me—"To the depths of Oblivion with you!"—and then that sharp tongue said no more, and never would. Its head was now on the floor, and Athis was shocked into paralysis, leaving him an open target. He was snapped back into the fray when Rune took up Njada's place, hefting his battleaxe and shouting at Athis to grieve later.

We passed the battlements where Niruin, Cynric, Karliah, and Tonilia were making short work of any and everything within range. Their marksmanship didn't need to be as precise here as it had during the Battle of Riften, and as a result, they went through more arrows this time around. Ingun Black-Briar and Erandur were making constant runs into and out of the city, with Ingun hefting quiver upon quiver of arrows and Erandur covering her back as she scrambled up and down the wall. Lot of chutzpah, that little Black-Briar. Even more than her mother, if you ask me.

We passed Faralda and Tolfdir, who were blasting holes in Stormcloaks left and right. Faralda seemed to take a certain joy in tearing apart Thalmor limb from limb, and though I knew that she'd had family that perished during the Night of Green Fire, I wondered how much it was backlash from the Ancano debacle. She would do most of the blasting, while Tolfidr, bless the old man, would keep wards casted to shield them both, would keep Ebony- or Ironflesh always casted, and would occasionally encase the enemy with the Ash Shell spell or, most impressively, cast Mass Paralysis on a whole knot of soldiers. Faralda would them blow them to the Deadlands with Chain Lightning, or worse—the Lighting Storm spell.

We passed Odahviing raining death from the skies by fire and frost. His Thu'um boomed across the plains and his gut-twisting dragon's cry scattered Thalmor and Stormcloaks better than any spell or sword could ever do. Paarthurnax, I had never seen in combat, but his style was much like mine—never relent, never stop fighting, and _never _give them the opening to attack you, if you can avoid it. But Paarthurnax was old—much older than Odahviing—and could not keep himself aloft forever. He had to land at certain points, and though my men tried to defend him as best they could, the _Onik Gein _was taking a beating. Hopefully, Alduin's little brother could take it.

We passed Aela in her bestial form, and Farkas right behind her in much the same. Aela had desperately wanted to fight as a werewolf, and her Shield-Brother wasn't about to let her do so alone. I watched as Aela snapped a man's head clean off and Farkas eviscerated another one's with razor-sharp claws. They worked in savage, brutal harmony—just like a true wolf pack—and though I knew at some point they would join as humans again, but for the moment I was damn glad to have some werewolves with us. Why?

We were losing.

It was sheer force of numbers that was driving us back. Our lines weren't breaking (well, "lines" being used loosely, here. Mostly, the Stormcloaks weren't gaining), and certainly there was no lack of heart within my boys. There were just too many of the _gods-damned _things! We couldn't keep up with numbers and power like that. We didn't have the manpower, capacity, or, frankly, unimaginativeness. But we needed a new plan—and we needed one _fast_—or we'd all end up in Sovngarde before the day was out.

I saw Galmar Stone-Fist in his Stormcloak officer's uniform, the brown fur and bear's head cap I so detested. He wielded his trusty battleaxe like a cleaver, smashing through my men like a man possessed. Such rage in such a squat body, I never could quite fathom how. (Dimly, I realized that was also what people said about me.)

I saw Avalon and Cicero cutting through my ranks, having a grand old time surrounded by so much death. They both still wore their black-and-red Brotherhood Armor, Avalon the more traditional leather-on-leather, Cicero's more like mages' robes (if mages were jesters…). My sister had her ceremonial longsword in one hand and fireballs in the other, and she showed no mercy to anyone on her way. Cicero, likewise, had ice spikes in one hand and an ebony dagger in the other, and his battle-snarl made the madman seem almost sane, for a moment. But tears were streaming down Avalon's face, and my wolf senses could pick up her murmured words, even over the clamor and crash of war: "Lady Mephala, forgive my cowardice. Bring these men to the light of Aetherius. Lady Mephala, forgive my cowardice. Bring these men to the light of Aetherius. Lady Mephala…"

I saw Ulfric Stormcloak, decked out in steel-plate armor with a Stormcloak blue cloak across his shoulders, his trusty steel war axe glinting the morning light. His battle-snarl was eerily similar to mine, I couldn't help but note, and his fighting stance was like a more masculine version of my own. His Thu'um ripped from his throat with the intensity of a full-blooded _dovah, _making the _vomuz dovah _in me cry out, affronted to her very soul. _How unfit he is to wield such a power! _she seemed to say.

I saw Neva in full battle regalia, Thalmor robes of black and gold. Her hair was bound up in the battle-maiden style, up and out of her face but still elegant, as befitting a "proper young warrior woman." (_Nchow, _what a ridiculous notion.) Neva was a showstopper in a full-on brawl like this, casting Ebonyflesh and dual-casting Thunderbolt or the Master-level Spell, Blizzard. Grimly, I remembered standing in our ancestral home, watching Neva practice that last spell, and asking if she'd teach it to me someday. Neva had smiled and said, of course, but only if I worked hard enough.

We were losing men fast. Njada had been first, and she was quickly joined by several others who'd come to join the fight from the four corners of Skyrim but hadn't known the Dragonborn. I watched the lights leave Sapphire's eyes, saw Brelyna Maryon succumb to the sheer force of power coming at her from a Thalmor Battlemage, and felt the world grow just a little colder when Calder received a spear through the chest. I watched Neva set a good chunk of the Whiterun guard on fire, saw Avalon slit the throats of several Legionaries, heard the Ice Form shout and whipped my head around just in time to see one of Ralof's friends crash into the White River.

I told Vilkas to cover me as I scrambled up the hill, staking out the battle for a moment from the wall surrounding Whiterun. "We need to take out the Battlemages!" I called down to him, and I knew he was relaying the orders to our runners. "Forget the footsoldiers a moment—take out the bloody mages!"

I hopped back down to the ground, drawing my swords once more, stopping my assault just long enough to quickly run a soul gem across the blades. I slammed once more into Uflric's army, cleaving through the footsoldiers to get at the Thalmor. They were the real issue, here. Azura almighty, if this was even just a taste of the Great War, no wonder the Empire surrendered!

"_YOL TOOR SHUL!" _I howled, and fire burst from my throat, slamming into anyone stupid enough to stand in its way. It cut through the mass of bodies like a blade.

Across the way, I saw a Thalmor Battlemage with his back to me, dual-casting Chain Lightning and just generally making a nuisance of himself. Rather than be stupid enough to go at him with a sword, I sheathed one and called upon my magicka. I sent a thunderbolt arcing across the plains, and hit him square in the back. He staggered back, and I saw someone put a sword through his chest. When he finally fell, standing over him with a sword in her hand was Aisling in her clan tartan, who nodded to me. "Much obliged!"

The day wore on, with my more skilled warriors infiltrating units and taking out Thalmor battlemages. But for every successful attempt at this, there were at least three unsuccessful ones. That isn't to say someone always died; more often than not, the bloody mage just got away.

Regan and Aisling were like a hurricane off the coast of Valenwood. They cut through everything in their path without mercy, almost without thought. They cracked skulls, chopped off limbs, decapitated those dumb enough to get into close-range, and just generally kicked ass. Aisling with her short sword and Elven shield (interestingly enough), Regan with his Glass battleaxe and raw-throated battle cry. Twin blue hurricanes, brother and sister were, woad-covered, tartan-clad, and fierce as any _dovah_.

Ondolemar was dressed in Master Destruction Robes, courtesy of yours truly, and like Faralda, like Neva, was a showstopper when it came to war. He cast Wall of Storms and Wall of Flames frequently, and his Shield-Brother for the moment, the blind smith Isembard, would pick off any survivors. The two of them made a good team, and Ondolemar himself, by noon, had taken out seven or eight of the Thalmor's Battlemages. His old friends and colleagues didn't realize he'd switched sides until it was far too late.

Delphine fought with Esbern, and both of the aging Blades kept up a laudable salvo. Delphine was decked out in her usual leather armor, Esbern in his Expert Conjuration robes, and they fought like Brynjolf and Delvin, classic warrior/mage style. Delphine was keeping herself as far away from Odahviing and Paarthurnax as possible, because like it or not, she was on the same side as two (well, three) _dovah, _and it would hardly do anyone any good to go killing off allies. They too punched holes in Ulfric's lines, no mercy, no emotion, no nothing.

Vipir the Fleet and Jordis the Sword-Maiden made a terrifying, if strange, team, cutting through men left and right with swords that never stayed put long enough to define themselves. Claudius and Lydia were much the same. J'zargo fought with Ria, a strange combination of styles that eventually hammered itself out to the classic warrior/mage duality, and they kept up a steady thinning of the enemy.

By midday, my men were disappearing off the field to go scarf down some food and rejoin the fray before they were missed. Farkas and Aela were back to fighting as humans. Karliah had summoned her ancestor's ghost to look after a flailing Thrynn, who's focus had been shattered upon receiving news of Sapphire. But like a good soldier, he pressed on. Ingun was mixing all sorts of healing, magicka, and stamina potions right there on the battlefield, alongside Arcadia and Farengar Secret-Fire. And Jarl Balgruuf himself had joined the fight with Irileth and Hrongar. Eorland, Avulstein, Thorald, and Olfina Grey-Mane and Jon, Idolaf, and Olfrid Battle-Born came down as well, dressed all in battle armor and wielding sword, axe, and bow. For now, it seemed that their petty House vendettas had been put away. I was damn proud of them—I knew how hard that could be.

But we were still losing this war, dammit.

Vilkas and I took our leave of the fight a moment to scarf down some bread and cheese and regenerative potions just inside the walls of Whiterun. The clamor of war was hushed here in the quiet city, where mostly young children, old men and women, and expectant mothers remained. We sat with our backs to the wall, our weapons sheathed and our hands shaking. The sudden silence gave me time to think. "Cut off the head, and the chicken will go running," I quoted House Morwyn wisdom, mostly to myself.

Vilkas spared a glance for me. "Eh?"

I caught his glance. "We need to take out whomever is in charge of the battlemages. The rest will be panicked enough to take out."

"But who's in charge?" Vilkas asked.

"If I had to guess," I said, no longer looking at him, "Neva."

We stayed put another moment—long enough to sharpen our blades and me to recharge mine—and then we went to rejoin the fray. This time, however, I had a better plan, which I tossed back and forth with Vilkas all the way down the hill. "Morwyn, that's bloody stupid!" he argued.

"But is it also bloody brilliant?" I shot back.

"…Well, yes, _but still!"_

I clapped him on the shoulder, the effect slightly lost through his pauldron. "Just keep a distance enough that she won't see it coming. Or use a bow." We slammed into the ranks, and his retort was lost.

Neva wasn't all that hard to find. She was blasting holes in my lines with fantastic bits of magic, to be sure, but they left her wide open. Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one who noticed this. Delvin sent a thunderbolt crashing into my eldest sister, and Brynjolf was right behind it, war axe raised. Neva recovered from the lack of magicka just in time to send a stomp kick into his gut, with a spell of frost to follow it up. (By some mercy, it was only frost.) Bryn crashed back into Delvin, and Neva was hot on his heels.

I drew upon the deepest reserve of magicka I had in my fury, the racial magicka locked deep within every being's soul, man or mer. Fire burst from every pore on my body, and it was like stepping in front of a warm hearth on a cold day. This was familiar, this was right. This was, colloquially, the Ancestors' Wrath. I sheathed my swords to save them from the fire.

I tackled Neva to the ground in the absence of weapons, slamming my shoulder painfully into her ribs. She let out a startled "Oof!" and her spell cut itself off when her concentration was shot. Neva kicked at me, landing one on my sternum with luck. It forced me to let go, left me wheezing for breath. But the Ancestors' Wrath was eating at her. _Must be my Nord blood, _I thought with a backhanded chuckle.

"You are just _determined _to be a thorn in my side, aren't you?" Neva spat as we regained our footing. She hocked again, this time sending blood to the floor. She sent a fireball my way, and I dodged with a roll.

"I told you," I growled as I stood again, "you so much as touch a hair on his head, and I'll claw your eyes out."

I laid into her before I was even finished speaking. In the confusion that resulted, I plunged my thumb into her right eye socket. She cried out and clawed at me, ranking my face with her nails and sending weak sparks across my skin. But I didn't need magicka for this. With a sickening squelch, her right eye popped clear out of its socket, and I ripped the crimson orb out the rest of the way, crushing it under my heel as soon as it hit the ground.

Neva howled in rage and pain and knocked me backwards with a thunderbolt to the gut. My dragonbone armor took most of the beating, but the force left me gasping for air. My Ancestors' Wrath spluttered out. "You little _bitch!" _she shrieked, sending more fireballs my way with a wild arm. "You whore, you slut, you worthless s'wit! My _eye!"_

I dodged most of her spells by staying put and drew my sword. "Go die in a ditch, Neva!"

I love fighting mages at close range. They usually only have a backup dagger and not enough room to cast spells. It's what kept me from being a full-on mage, really. Neva recognized this danger as well, and usually attempted to put some distance between her and her assailant before starting a fight. But there was no time for that now.

So instead she conjured up a bound sword from the depths of Oblivion and kept flames on hand in the other, when she could spare the magicka. Blood was streaming down the right side of her face, and through gritted teeth she petitioned Boethiah. The swordfight that ensued was the culmination of everything we'd learned—and it would have to be, between two of the Morwyn sisters. I could do little but parry Neva's short, vicious salvos, but when she ran out of steam and began fighting with more languid strokes, my years of training with the Companions kicked in, and I laid into her with a newfound fury. She kept having to reconjure a blade for herself, because they wore down so quickly and our duel lasted so long.

And then, it happened. The split second between when her old blade died and her new one formed, I pressed into her guard. Dawnbreaker lopped off the hand doing the conjuring while the Ebony Sword of the Blaze drove up and under her sternum. Neva gasped in shock, her magicka drying up with the loss of life energy. "Oblivion take you," I growled.

Her remaining eye didn't leave me as I yanked her forearm bone out of the arm without a hand, and snapped the bones across my knee. I set it on fire with the spell of flames, and threw the ashes in her face. She knew she would never see Aetherius, not without a complete skeleton. And the terror only left her eye when the light did, as well. I yanked my sword out of her ribs and twirled both blades in spiraling arcs, loosening up my wrists. Her body fell away, and I had no doubt 'twould be lost before the day's end.

I turned on heel to rejoin Vilkas, and check up on Brynjolf and Delvin. "I'm alright, lass, easy!" Brynjolf dismissed my concern. "Easy."

No one said anything about the brutality they'd just witnessed. "How are…?" I began, but cut myself off when I noticed that, a few paces from where we were standing, Ulfric was making his fight on one of the smaller hilltops. I could end this war right now.

"Look after each other," I ordered the warrior, thief, and the mage before I took off once more.

The parallels were not lost on them. "Got a bear to skin?" Vilkas called.

"Aye!"

"Then stay away from the river!" Delvin shouted.

I was laughing as I ran.


	91. Why the Nightingale Sings

**If I may make a listening suggestion for this chapter, put on **_**Carry On, **_**by Avenged Sevenfold. That'll do it.**

**And as always, a big thank you to all my readers, lurkers, and wonderful reviewers :) You guys are just awesome.**

**The non-PM crew:**

**Fallen Maiar: Thank you very much :D **

**Lyriel: Poor everyone, I'm afraid. And haha, I find all the Morwyn quotes amusing.**

**We know: I'm sure they're better than you think. Ah poor girl! And of course Ty went through with it—she's a woman of her word.**

**Stephan: Smells like doom :3 and thank you**

**Search endlessly, fight 'til we're free.**

**-)**

I strode forward to meet Ulfric Stormcloak with my head held high, occasionally pausing in the pursuit to chop off someone's head or blast a bit of Restoration magic towards an ally. He knew I was coming—he welcomed me with open arms, in fact, when I reached his little hill. Always thinking himself above the rest of us, the man was.

"Welcome, _daughter," _he spat the familial term as though it were a curse. I did him the upstanding honor of ignoring it.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," I called, my clear, _dovah_-like voice ringing out across the plains, "I challenge you to single, open combat!" There was a deafening silence, then. Everyone fighting in the vicinity had grown quiet, waiting for General Stormcloak's reaction. "Or do you only duel those who cannot match—nay, surpass—your Thu'um?" I taunted, my Elven cadence coming back in full force.

Laughter arose from my men, only to be sharply cut off when Ulfric barked, "Tiberia Stormcloak Morwyn, I accept! And you shall regret your _stupidity."_

"Haven't yet," I retorted brightly, and drew my swords.

Ulfric drew an ebony sword of his own, and the battle resumed below us. _"ZUN!" _he barked, and I quickly dodged out of the way. But even if he'd landed the Shout, I doubt one word would have been enough to disarm me.

"You'll have to be better than that," I taunted. "_STRUN BAH QO!" _

Ulfric seemed surprised when the Thu'um didn't slam into him. "Your aim is awful," he smirked.

It was about then that the sky began to cloud over, darkening the once-peaceful skies above Whiterun. "I wasn't aiming for _you," _I snapped.

It began to thunderstorm in earnest as Ulfric and I began a true swordsman's duel, much like mine with Mercer Frey would have been had the ex-Guildmaster had the decency to hold still like he had in sparring practice. When I stepped left, Ulfric stepped right, keeping the distance between us. He stepped right and I stepped left, unwilling to be the one to crack. We circled each other like two Valenwood jungle cats, carefully taking stock of the situation before pouncing.

Then, he struck in tandem with the lightning from the storm I'd called. Our blades clashed together as screams arose from his army and my men scrambled to get out of the way of the deadly lightning. I parried Ulfric's cuts, slashed and hacked and attempted to get around his shield to no avail. And he was not above shield-bashing, which sucks when you don't have one yourself. Fed up, I barked, "_KRII LUN!" _

This time the Thu'um landed square in the middle of his chest, knocking the wind out of him. A purple glow enveloped him, reeking of magicka and Oblivion. His armor would weaken over time, and his stamina would fall off a cliff. Marked for Death he was now, as if he weren't already.

_"__FO KRAH!" _he replied, the frost raging forth like razor sharp winter winds.

That one caught _me _square in the chest, knocking me back and nearly making me lose my balance. With my fingers now flash-frozen to the hilts of my swords, I charged the Bear of Markarth heedlessly as a cliff-racer. I sent my spiraling power attack into his guard, and was rewarded with a study _thump-whump _that resounded against his ebony shield. His sword style was marred by his preference for the war axe, I couldn't help but note. His strikes were the short, clunky, rapid ones favored by practitioners of blunt weaponry. Hardly apt for a bladesman.

We were painfully evenly matched. My twin blades weren't strong enough to break through his shield-wall, but he wasn't quick enough to land more than a glance blow. Perfectly matched in force, perfectly balanced in strength and agility, both needing a little push to win. Force, balance, push. _Fus, ro, dah._

That was it!

"_FUS RO DAH!"_

The concussive blast shot from both my throat and his, tearing our weapons from our hands and knocking his shield from his grasp. My head slammed painfully into the ground, sparking stars into my vision. Jumping to my feet and scrabbling for my swords did it no good. Fed up, I called upon my magicka and conjured up two bound swords from Oblivion. I then whirled to face Ulfric. Blood and sweat ran down my face and into my eyes, causing them to sting abominably. Ulfric was still scrabbling for his sword.

Blinking the rubbish from my eyes, I advanced, slamming both blades into the ground where Stormcloak had been not ten seconds prior. Growling in frustration, I yanked the bound blades out of the ground and realized I could have just drawn the Nightingale Blade…. Ah, well. Had them out now. I whirled to face my assailant in the interim. Ulfric, the lucky bastard, was once gain fully armed. He came at me with his shield forward, falling into a shield-bash to knock me senseless. I dodged the thing by some mercy, and used his back as a springboard to get out of range.

Across the way, I spotted Dawnbreaker glinting in the flashes of lightning. I bolted towards it, scooping up the Daedric blade without even a pause in my stride. I turned quickly and caught Ulfric's blade on the edge of mine. A twist of the arm, a flick of the wrist, and his ebony blade clattered to the ground. He recovered admirably from his shock—slammed his shield right into my chest. My armor took the brunt of the blow, but it still knocked me off balance and send the wind whooshing from my lungs. I executed a haphazard back-walkover just to avoid losing my balance entirely.

Ulfric was coming at me with a newfound fury. I parried as best I could with one blade, and augmented with spells from my left hand. All the while, I kept an eye out for my own ebony sword, the one with the fire enchantment. I could have been using the Nightingale Blade, I suppose, but it was running out of its enchantment and I had to save it for later and _besides. _I wasn't sure the flimy, thief's blade could hold up against Ulfric's brutal onslaught.

Ah, there it was! I slashed Ulfric across the face and then tore across the hilltop to where my trust old Ebony Sword of the Blaze lay. I scooped it up just in time to bring boths words foreward and dispel the force of Ulfric's newest attack.

"_YOL TOOR SHUL!"_ I Shouted, and though he cowered behind his ebony shield, the heat made him cry out and singed his clotehs and hair—I could smell it. Marked for Death was taking its toll on his armor, as well.

"_FO KRAH!" _he Shouted once more, and the frost slammed into my chest and face.

The razor snow knocked me back, and then Ulfric hooked a boot behind my knee and sent me crashing to the floor. He kicked my ribs—where Mercer had _stabbed _me, no less—just for spite.. He then was stadnign over me, his sword in hand and posied just above my neck. "Any last words, Dragonborn?" He mocked.

Our duel had been brought to a grinding halt. "Just one," I said. "_FEIM ZII!" _My corporeal form winked out of being, and Ulfric's blade slammed harmless into the ground.

"That's useful," he commented blackly as he yanked his sword out of the ground and I rose like a specter with my blades in hand.

"Isn't it?" I agreed.

There was an awkward lull in combat then, because under the Become Ethereal shout, I cannot harm or be harmed, and Ulfric was no longer a young man with energy to spare. "How many Shouts do you know, anyway?" he suddenly asked.

"Full ones? Twelve, maybe thirteen. In total? Closer to seventeen or eighter. Why?"

Ulfric shrugged. "Just curious as to how I stack up against the hero of legend.

"And how do you?"

"Not badly. Six or seven, three with all three words."

Grudgingly, I admitted, "Not bad, for a _joor."_

Before he could reply, I heard Avalon's battle-cry sound from below us. She and Cicero were just yanking their blades out of two of my men when Farkas and Aela loomed in their peripheral vision. Avalon immeditealy dropped into the ready position, and Cicero was not far behind. But not one of the combatants moved.

"Go on, Avalon." Farkas' growling voice arose over the clamor of war, thanks to my Beast Blood. "Go on."

Avalon was frozen in place. "Oh, Lady Mephala, forgive my cowardice."

"Listener…?" Cicero prompted, concerned.

Suddenly, Avalon's face snapped into a battle-sneer, no tears, no sorrow. "That is _absolutely _it—I don't even care if I go to the Deadlands for this!"

And she turned on heel to attack her own men—the Stormcloaks, the Thalmor, the remnants of the Brotherhood. Cicero was right behind her, and Farkas and Aela were howling with characteristic, wolfman laughter. Somewhere in Oblivion, Mephala was smiling…

…and Sheogorath was calling out in alarm.

Pain shot through me like a lance of white-hot iron, starting at the chink in my bone-plates, just below my chest. The chink in my armor, if you will. Ulfric's sword, bloody and black, greeted me when I glanced down. I was no longer ethereal—I could once more harm, and more importantly, _be harmed._ I glanced back up to Ulfric, who was smirking as I fell to my knees. Bastard didn't even have the common courtesy to yank his damn sword out of my ribs.

"Do you see now!?" He called to the warring masses below us. "Even the _Dovahkiin_ dies!"

I was losing focus, and in that haze, I touched my most powerful magical weapon—not the Beast Form, or the Ancestors' Wrath—the Nightingale's Strife. The magic leapt form me to Ulfric, purple and black and straight from Oblivion. It knocked Stormcloak to his knees and I felt myself grow stronger as I stole his life energy.

I yanked his ebony blade from my chest, rosining up my own as I pounded unsteadily to where he stood. With the sudden burst of energy the Nightingale Strife afforded me, I jammed both blades up and under his chest plate, through the back. And in my clear, _dovah's _voice, I reminded him:

"So do traitors."


	92. Sunvaarseyollokke

**Hey all, here's another. And as always, thanks to all you awesome readers, lurkers, and especially reviewers.**

**And the Non-PM crew:**

**We know: I'm sure they're not so bad. I'll check it out when I've got some time. And yeah, Ty's easily distracted.**

**Stephan: ah, more sense. And thank you :)**

**s**

-)

Tiberia's voice rang out with frightening clarity: "So do traitors."

I was yanking my war axe out of a Thalmor when I heard Ulfric's booming proclamation, saw Tiberia enact Nightingale Strife, heard her call out that last line. At first I was relieved—Ulfric was dead, and Avalon was back where she belonged. But then, the moment passed, and a realization washed over me like Lake Honrich in mid-Morning Star:

"She's not moving."

"No, she's not," Delvin agreed with no small amount of horror in his voice.

Vilkas' head whipped towards his Soul-Bond. "Something's happening."

I hate it when he's right, but up on the ridge, there was a blast of magic, not unlike when Mercer Frey rocked the cavern down in Irkngthand. Something ethereal and ghostlike rose from the wound in Ty's chest, sort of like the Soul Ritual she'd done with Vilkas a few weeks ago. (Had it really been such a short time? Felt like a lifetime ago.) It began to circle her, like Restoration Magic casted on oneself. There was a strand of the mist-like substance that was a fiery orange, one that was an Oblivion black-and-purple, and one that was the icy blue of the spirits.

"It smells like ash," Vilkas offered up. "Ash and steel, Ancient Nordic Magic and even older Daedric Magic."

"I don't know _what _that is," came a pained, accented voice, "but the Bond is going absolutely batshit."

Vilkas, Delvin, and I turned as one and raised our weapons of choice high.

"Please don't kill me," was all Avalon said. She was holding the arm with the Bond Tattoo tight against her gut.

"We've got bigger problems," I said, sheathing an axe. I kept one drawn, though. I'm not stupid.

Ondolemar materialized a moment later, no doubt because Avalon had come back to the good guys. "Err, what _is _going on with your Bond, Avalon?"

"I don't know," she said shakily, offering up her right arm as proof. The Bond Tattoo was still a dark, rusty red. "But it hurts like a bitch. Whatever is going on up there is some powerful Ancestor Magic. I mean, look." She gestured to one of the battlements. "Even Karliah can feel it, and she's only a distant cousin."

Across the field, Karliah's face was twisted in pain, and she had a hand to her torso, right where the stab wound was on Tiberia. The older Dunmeri woman had to brace herself against Niruin to keep herself on her feet. "How are you not catatonic?" Ondolemar asked, sounding surprised.

At that point, Avalon let out a pained grunt and fell forward. Farkas caught her before she hit the floor, having joined our little powwow over here. The older Twin handed the unconscious Dark Elf over to her High Elven friend. "Ah," Ondolemar said. "That's how."

"I've seen this before," Farkas murmured, sounding truly and unequivocally spooked. "In a dream, a long time ago."

"Mother of Mercy in the Sixteen Realms of Oblivion," I swore, "don't you have the Sight?"

Farkas never answered that because before anything could be spoken Aela, sounding alarmed and terrified and very un-Aela, whispered, _"Look."_

On the hilltop, the swirling mists of Ty's souls—for what else could it be?—were lengthening, reaching out and attaching to bits and pieces of her Dragon Bone Armor. The runes she'd carved into it stuck out starkly now, outlined in the blood of her family—hers, Ulfric's, and Neva's—but the muck was quickly being washed away by the driving rain from the Storm she'd called, leaving the bones clean for what was happening next. With sharp cracks and heavy snaps, the souls tore her armor apart, and Ty suddenly spread her arms wide, as though waiting for something. The now-clean, white bones began to reassemble themselves, and the Dragon Skin she wore underneath was stretching and tearing, covering these bones as they'd done in life. The result was a bit tattered and worn, like Paarthrunax.

And then a full-bodied _dovah _was then on that hilltop, the scales a familiar blue-grey and the wings black as jet. But the eyes—the _eyes_—were what got me. They were the fiery crimson I knew so well, and slanted just like hers were. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind. That dragon _was _Tiberia. The _Dovahsos. _Just _had _to be.

The dragon—Ty—let loose with a glorious roar and then took to the skies. Her powerful wings knocked men and mer alike to the floor, and then her favorite Shout escaped from that fanged maw—"_YOL TOOR SHUL!"_—before it just went berserk.

It was like watching Ty's Beast Form during the Battle of Riften. Even to my untrained eye, she seemed _bigger _than Odahviing or Paarthurnax, who were rather large to begin with. Her razor-sharp claws eviscerated soldier after soldier, her powerful jaws snapping neck after neck. She would soar to a great height, then dive headfirst into a knot of Thalmor and Stormcloaks. She cracked bones between her teeth, rammed into shield-walls with reckless abandon. Weapons snapped harmlessly against her hide, and the arrows that pierced her wings seemed not to slow her down. She scattered men with that roar, with that howl, with her Thu'um. She impaled clean through Thalmor by means of talons, and twisted heads and limbs clean off. She Shouted fire and frost, and I suddenly divined meaning from the old poem:

_Maw unleashing razor snow,_

_Of Dragons from the blue brought down,_

_Births the walking winter's woe,_

_The High King, in his jagged crown._

But then I realized, when a Whiterun guard got caught in the crossfire, she couldn't tell the difference between friend and foe. That, or she didn't care to, but knowing Ty, it was definitely the former. "RUN!" I shouted, snapping everyone in the vicinity to attention.

I had taken maybe four steps before I felt myself scooped up by a powerful limb and deposited on the back of a flying dragon—mercifully, out of the way of the spines down his back. A few feet down his back, I noted Avalon was clinging to his hide for dear life, as well. "Paarthurnax," I asked, unable to keep the fear out of my voice, "what _is_ that?"

"That," the old dragon rumbled—the _Onik Gein, _I think Ty called him, "is the _Sunvaarseyolloke."_

_ Ah, the really long Dragon word no one's got a bloody translation for._

"_Geh," _the _dovah _replied a tad sheepishly (if a several-ton, scaled beast can sound sheepish, anyway), and I realized I'd said that last statement out loud.

Up here in the clouds, the storm was even worse. Paarthurnax was avoiding the lightning well enough, but the rain was bitter, the thunder deafening. Below, Tiberia was Shouting something that was neither fire nor frost, and my working knowledge of Draconic (which, like Dunmeris, mostly consisted of insults and battle-taunts) was sadly lacking. "Paarthurnax," I called, "what is she saying?"

"_Qo stin su'um," _he rumbled in reply.

I made a rotating motion with my hands just out of habit. Didn't help that he couldn't see me. "Which means?"

That actually set back the old dragon. It took him ages to come up with the Common Tongue for it. No wonder Ty dropped into so much Draconic when talking to these things! "Lightning, free, breath."

"She's breathing _lighting?" _Avalon interjected from somewhere near Paarthurnax's tail.

"_Geh…" _I was beginning to learn that was the _dovahs' _word for yes. "…that is the simplest way to say it for you, _joor."_

"What does that mean?" I couldn't help but ask, even as I stared transfixed at the carnage below.

"_Joor _means mortal, Son of Talos," Paarthurnax told me. "_Krosis, _I forget you do not speak as we _dov _do."

As Paarthurnax soared over the battlefield, Tiberia's _dovah_ raged below. She blew through Stormcloaks and Thalmor like a hurricane, taking no prisoners and sparing no mercy for the wicked. I watched as Galmar Stone-Fist was snapped in half, as Elenwen's men succumbed to a wall of fire, as Rulindil received a talon through the gut and never cast another spell. The blue-grey scales of the _dovah _below were turning red from the bloodbath, and it seemed the rain could do nothing for it.

She took to the skies once more, and I couldn't help but note that on her underbelly was a deep ruby splotch, so dark it was almost black. It mirrored the wound on her human form. Err, elven. You get the idea.

"Sweet mother," Avalon muttered. "How can that be the little girl who was afraid of the dark?"

I spared a glance for the middle Morwyn Sister. "Avalon…" I began.

"Brynjolf, please don't," she interrupted. "I'm just musing, here."

"I was _going_ to say," I said, the tone firm and unyielding, "it's good to have you back."

"Oh." She flushed crimson. "Err, thanks. Good to be back."

"You were talking about Ancestor Magic earlier," I ventured. "What does that have to do with _that?" _I gestured to the raging _dovah _below.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully enough. "Ancestor Magic is what allows us to call upon ghostfences, though, and to talk to our ancestors—Clan rituals, if you like. You know, Clan Necromancy. Surely you've heard of it. The Nords are constantly capturing Solstheim, which we then have to go and re-capture." Ain't that a perfect history of Nord-Dunmer relations. "Word would have gotten around by now, surely."

My knowledge of Nord legend filled in the blanks. "A Dragonborn is one favored by Akatosh with Dragon Blood."

"And Alduin was the first-born of Akatosh," Paarthurnax offered up. "There is a reason we call her _mal briinah, bron se fahlil."_

I sat back in shock. "I assumed that was just a friendly nickname."

_"Niid, bron."_

_ Bron… _that probably meant man, or Nord. Probably Nord, because I was pretty sure _fahlil _meant elf… _Talos, _I had no idea. How did Ty keep all her languages straight? I had enough trouble remembering Falmer for the ciphers! "So that's… Alduin's little sister, out there?"

"In a manner of speaking," Paarthurnax replied.

"Alduin?" Avalon asked.

"Nord God of Destruction, the World-Eater," I called back to her. "Large, black, winged thing, inherently evil. Ty killed him a few years ago."

"God of Destruction, eh?" Avalon glanced down pointedly.

And Ty took up the mantle right where the World-Eater had left off, apparently. In less time than it took to walk from Riften to Shor's Stone, she had decimated the entirety of the Stormcloak-Thalmor army. Most of her own had gotten out of the crossfire, realizing that, like the storm still raging around us, this beast would not know friend from foe. The battlefield was smoldering, spluttering smoke rising despite the driving rain. Frost caked ridges and small valleys, and part of the White River was even frozen solid. Paarthurnax flew on, and more of the damage was made known to us. Entire units, decimated. Fire _everywhere. _It was like something straight out of a legend.

"This must be what Helgen was like," I commented quietly.

"Where's Ralof when you need him?" Avalon replied with the black sort of humor characteristic to Dark Elves.

And then, just like it had began, it was over.

Ty's _dovah _landed on that same hilltop where Ulfric's body still lay, and from that ruby red mark on her chest, her souls poured forth once more. This time, however, the bones cracked and the skin split, re-assimilating into a parody of the carefully crafted armor she'd worn earlier this day. It was tattered, torn, and broken, and didn't fuse back over the hole in her ribs that Ulfric had created. Without that magic to keep her animated, Tiberia Morwyn fell to her knees, no doubt cursing herself as she did so. Dawnbreaker was standing, hilt-up, in the ground, and Ty had a hand on the hilt of her oh-so-familiar blade. Blood was pouring out of her battle wound, now. Damn Ulfric Stormcloak to Oblivion!

I felt Paarthurnax begin a quick descent, not so sharp as Ty's had been, or even Odahviing's across the way, but certainly fast enough to make the air sing past my ears. He landed with a solid _thud, _and I slid from his back before he'd even settled. I landed hard on my feet, and my knees buckled when they hit land, like when you've been riding a horse all day and then dismount.

More and more of her soldiers were coming out of the woodwork, now that there was no immediate danger. I spotted the Twins, Karliah, and Ondolemar with just a cursory glance. I glanced to Avalon and she nodded, and we quickly made our way over to that hilltop, to our fallen Shield-Sister.


	93. When Sovngarde Beckons

**This one… this one was hard to write. For obvious reasons.**

**As always, a big thank you to all my wonderful readers, lurkers, and reviewers. You guys are the best.**

**And the Non-PM crew:**

**Stephan: You'll get a translation :)**

**Lyriel: Hell yeah! Well, sort of. And sí the story is almost over… but not yet.**

**Onward.**

**-)**

All was quiet on the battlefield. No more did the clamor of war ring out, no more did the screams of the dying litter the air. The rain had ceased, leaving the sky an ominous black and the ground soaked with something other than blood. There was no living soul of Ulfric's army left alive, save Avalon, Cicero, and Festus Krex. All of them had perished in the massacre.

We reached Ty a split-second before Vilkas and Farkas did. She was doubled over, pressing both hands to the wound on her chest. Her armor, once making her seem so strong, so fierce, was in rags, and she suddenly seemed so very small. As though she were a child, playing make-believe in her father's armor.

Seeing her like that shattered my battle-calm.

By the Divines, my _wife _had not only just slaughtered an entire army, but _sweet merciful Talos that was a lot of blood! _I hadn't been thinking about it, hanging on for dear life on Paarthurnax's back—_where is it all coming from?!_—but now that I was back firmly on the ground, war axes sheathed and no enemies to be found, anywhere (except possibly Avalon)… There isn't language strong enough. Not for the fear that clamped down on my insides and seized my heart.

Ty's gaze flicked up to all of us standing there. "Hey you lot," she grunted, her voice faint. She kept one hand pressed to her wound but extended the other up, reaching out like a child. "Little help?"

Avalon clasped her hand, and pulled her sister to her feet. "Thanks, Lon-Lon," Ty murmured, putting the other hand to her ribs again. Blood welled over her fingers, staining her ragged armor and my Clan Ring. "I'm not…" Grimace. "…going to die on my knees."

The word was a shock to my system—like one's head dunked in a keg of mead to ward off an argument, like Mercer Frey betraying the Guild, like the news of my brother, like learning your lass was the Dragonborn of legend. But I wasn't the only one shocked, for Avalon barked: "What? No!" She yanked up her sleeve, exposing her Bond-Tattoo, which was steadily darkening. A miniature icy-blue soul mist was beginning to bubble out form it. "Little one, come here!"

"_No!" _Ty shouted, Thu'um booming out with the syllable. She was backing away from her sister, or at least attempting to. "You are not going to die because of me, _do you hear me!?" _Her voice broke with the last words.

"I can heal you, s'wit; we're Blood-Bonded!" Avalon snapped, the term of abuse like one of endearment between the sisters. "Hold still!"

"Dammit, Avalon!" Ty attempted to yank her arm out of Avalon's grasp, but her strength was failing her. "I mean it! You haven't…" grimace. "…even the life energy to spare. You'll kill us _both."_

My lass, brought so low… it pained me to watch. "Ty, let her help you," I interjected. _"Please." I can't lose you._

Those fierce, crimson eyes flicked to me, and for the first time, there was no fire behind them. No fury, no smirk, no ferocity. There was just a bone-deep weariness, and an ancient sorrow locked in that gaze. "I'm _tired_, Bryn," was all she said—a statement of fact, not a whine.

_Holy shit, that's a lot of blood. _It continued to ooze over her fingers, her bracers, my Clan Ring. The lass truly had nothing left to give. Skyrim had taken it all. When Ty attempted to tug her arm out of Avalon's vice grip once more, the middle Morwyn Sister—well, now I guess she was the oldest—allowed it. "Tiberia, don't do this to yourself." Avalon's voice was cracking as well.

Vilkas was watching, wide-eyed and shaking. "Morwyn, when I told you to go die first, _I didn't mean it!"_

A small quirk of a smile fell across her features. "I know, Vilkas." She out a bitter laugh, more breath than sound. "Well, I guess it makes sense, now. _Nol yol se Aaz, Vedod se kiin, Zahrahmiik se Dov, alok. Alok, feyn se dez, ahrk kos Sunvaarseyollokke." _Ty dropped from language to language so flawlessly, even now.

"Your prophecy?" Farkas asked, uneasily.

Ty began to nod, but immediately stopped and put a bloodied hand to her head. "Your brother knows what it means."

"From the Fire of Mercy, the Ashes of Rebirth, Sacrifice of Dragonkind, arise," Vilkas rumbled from somewhere to my left. His voice was growing toneless, something I also employed to choke back emotion. "Arise, Bane of Fate, and be the Beast of Fire and Skies."

It hit me like Farkas mid-tackle. She rose once from the ashes of Sovngarde, but common sense said she should have died. She borrowed time—avoiding fate for a short while—and rose once more as that… _monster. _I hesitated to even think the word, but there was no better one. "This is what Mercer was talking about. This is the choice."

Tiberia nodded, grimly. "Mmm." She began to shiver.

Without even a conscious thought, I drew her to me: blood, gore, and all. Like so many times before, she rested her forehead against my collarbone. "I am so sorry, Bryn…" she began, that powerful voice sounded faded as bright cloth left out in the sun.

"Hey now," I said out of habit, even as my heart was breaking. My vision was clouding over, and I knew I wasn't the only one. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw each Twin bow his head. "Don't get soft on me now."

I felt her attempt a smile, a weak, smirking thing. "I'll see you in Sovngarde, my friend."

I don't know how long I stood there after her breathing ceased.

When I finally found something in me to raise my head, I found I was the only one. Avalon was sobbing into Ondolemar's shoulder, and the High Elf himself was staring at Tiberia, unashamed of the silent tears running down his face. Farkas was standing still as a stone, one big had clamped over his mouth, as though this vision of his had spoken the evil. Vilkas was shaking, visibly shaking—with rage, with fear, with sorrow, I didn't know. Aela's nails were digging into the skin on her opposite arm, one of her tricks to keep herself from giving into the Beast Blood. And Tolfdir was visibly shocked, magicka dancing across his fingers.

I glanced down to the Dark Elf I held in my arms for the last time. Gently, I closed her eyes and knelt on the bloodstained, muddy earth to lay her to rest, at least for now. I owed her so very much, and this was hardly the least of it. I was unaware of the wet, silent invaders overtaking my face until two of them flung themselves to the ground below, twin diamond-like pinpricks in the deepening twilight. _Azura's time of day, _the little voice the back of my mind noted. I rose to my feet once more, but found myself rooted to the spot.

I felt someone nudge me with something cold and smelted. My gaze whipped around, and there stood Aisling, offering her Elven shield out to me. The golden-bronze, hammered metal winked in the rainy twilight. She was humming something familiar, something I hadn't heard since we'd laid Raynor to rest. So much death in my family, so much pain. I could feel an old anger welling up from deep inside, but I squashed it once more. This was not the time for rage.

I took the proffered shield, and glanced up. I knew _one _of these Companions… Aye, Vilkas strode forward with Aela's iron shield in hand, his steps shuddering and uneven. We exchanged a curt nod and locked the two sheets of metal beneath Ty's head and shoulders—me on the left, him on the right. We added our voices to Aisling's.

Ralof, with his Ebony shield, materialized behind Vilkas, locking his shield with that of the younger of the Wolf Twins and humming as well. The melancholy chords were growing stronger with each addition. Avalon fell into line with we Nords next, locking Vex's Imperial Shield with the one I held, and the one Ralof did. She and Ty's oldest friend in Skyrim supported her ribs, her hips. Avalon picked up what we were singing as best she could. She'd lived in Skyrim long enough.

"_Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin,_

_Naal ek zin los vahriin…"_

After Avalon came Tolfdir, holding a Daedric shield in trembling hands. Talos only knew where he'd gotten it. He locked the Daedric-forged ebony with Avalon's Imperial steel, resolute as any warrior. Last was Ondolemar with a steel shield borrowed from Thrynn. He took up the sixth and final position behind Ralof, locking the last of the hammered metals together. He also had the good sense to scrounge up Ty's Ebony Sword of the Blaze and Dawnbreaker, and lay them next to their master.

"_Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal. _

_Ahrk fin norok paal graan fod nust hon zindro zaan,_

_Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal."_

We six shouldered our respective shields, and began the trek up the hill, back to Whiterun. By now, we were all singing out, despite our choked throats and heavy hearts. It was tradition to carry a General from the field of battle in this way, should he—should _she _perish. Legend has it, Ysgramor did so for one of his men during the Snow Elf Wars.

"_Huzrah nu, kul do od, _

_Wah aan bok lingrah vod,_

_Ahrk fin tey, boziik fun, do fin gein."_

It was a song for Sovngarde, the funeral chant of the _Song of the Dragonborn. _The Draconic came easily; I'd learned it as a child. The melody fitted into the words, and harmony sung by my battle-brothers. Tiberia had translated bits and pieces as she'd been asked, in the Cistern., and so I knew this was the Prophecy of the Dragonborn, put into melody. A battle, when great Tamriel shuddered with war. Thu'um, cutting through the masses like a blade. And the death of the World-Eater, the Bane of Kings.

"_Wo lost fron wah ney dov ahrk fin reyliik do jul, _

_Voth aan suleyk wah ronit faal krein."_

With a power to rival the sun, the last line said. Merciful Talos, what a massacre she'd left behind… What an absolute massacre. The power that lay in such a tiny frame was unearthly. Was this what they'd seen, during the Oblivion Crisis, with Martin Septim? What they'd felt? I doubted it. There was a veritable _hole _in my chest.

"_Ahrk fin zul, rok drey kod, _

_Nau tol morokei frod, _

_Rul lot Taazokaan, motaad voth kein._

_Sahrot Thu'um, med aan tuz, vey zeim hokoron pah, _

_Ol fin Dovahkiin komeyt ek rein."_

An honor guard was forming as we made our way up the hill to Whiterun. Paarthurnax and Odahviing swooped overhead, loosing keening, mourning howls into the winds. For her Harbinger, Aela had drawn her bow and was walking in tandem with Farkas, who had his greatsword drawn. A stone's throw from them walked the indomitable Vex, sword drawn and shield surrendered to the cause. Her own tears were cutting thick streaks through the grime and gore on her face.

Karliah was weeping freely, her Ancestors' Wrath pouring out from each and every pore. Tonilia had her own bow drawn and ready, standing watch over her Guildmaster like a ruin from the Alik'r Desert in its heyday. J'zargo and Onmund from the college had fire between their fingers, a last tribute to their Dunmeri Arch-Mage.

And absolutely everyone was singing.

"_Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin…_

"_Ahrk fin Kel lost prodah, do ved viing ko fin krah, _

_Tol fod zeymah win kein meyz fundein! _

_Alduin, feyn do jun, kruziik vokun staadnau, _

_Voth aan bahlok wah diivon fin lein!"_

It was getting harder and harder to just put one foot in front of the other. Tiberia Stormcloak Morwyn was too stubborn to die… right? She had survived Snow-Veil and Sovngarde, surely Stormcloak wouldn't be enough? He couldn't be. The bastard didn't deserve it.

The insult sent a stinging pain into my chest. Could I not even _swear_ without thinking of the lass? A familiar ache settled in. Would I never hear her laugh again, make her smile? Would she never burst into the Cistern again, singing the _Song of the Dragonborn_ under her breath in full-on Draconic, looking for me after a job? Would I never hold her in my arms again, sit under the stars, and talk about nothing and everything?

If there was any justice in the world, she was in Sovngarde.

"_Nuz aan sul, fent alok,_

_Fod fin vul dovah nok, _

_Fen kos nahlot mahfaeraak ahrk ruz! _

_Paaz Keizaal fen kos stin nol bein Alduin jot,_

_Dovahkiin kos fin saviik do muz!"_

_No, _I thought as the guards held open the door for this procession. _She isn't headed for the Shivering Isles, or Moonshadow, or the Hunting Grounds, or even Aetherius. Someone who gave everything like that _had _to go to Sovngarde, half-Nord or not._

"_Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin naal ek zin los vahriin _

_Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal…"_

Esbern and Ingun held open the doors to Jorrvaskr, and various thieves and even a Companion or two rushed in to make space. We six—the Thief, the Warrior, the Soldier, the Foreigner, the Past, and the Mage—laid General Stormblade to rest on the main table, just above the fire. Right where she always was.

"_Ahrk fin norok paal graan fod nust hon zindro zaan _

_Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal!"_

"Sleep now, love," I murmured as I lowered Aisling's shield to the scratched wood. Some of those divots came from Ty's knife, I knew. Lass had a deplorable habit of slamming her dagger in a table to make her point. "For your blessing we pray."

It would be a long time before I could sleep at all.


	94. Thick as Thieves

**Hey all, have a chapter. This one was giving me all sorts of trouble. Sorry about the delay!**

**And as always, a big thank you to all my wonderful readers, lurkers, and reviewers. You guys are the best :)**

**And the Non-PM crew:**

**We know: **tissue** ? feelz can be hard to handle**

**Keymasters: good to see you back, friend. **tissue**?**

**Lyriel: Afraid this is the real deal, my friend.**

**Tenshi321: This is not the end, actually. A few more chapters. **tissue**?**

**Daos88: Lots of death in war, I'm afraid. And yes, that would have been just like Ty. **nods** A few more chapters, actually. **

**Guest: I'm not the sort to cry, either, and last chapter was hard for ME to write. And I knew it was coming for ages. **

**Stephan: Everything comes to an end—even BAMFs.**

**Onward.**

**-)**

Jorrvaskr was like a ghost town. There was no laughter in this hall, no relief to see the war over, no joy in surviving the fight, just mutual misery. (Even Delphine had the good sense to look sad. I think hers more had to do with not offing Odahviing and/or Paarthurnax when she had the chance, though.) We sat around with our noses in tankards, only speaking when we had to. No one wanted to break this thick, sepulchral silence—not even Cicero. Worse yet, no one wanted to leave, but no one wanted to stay. So much had transpired here over the past month. So much new history in the Mead Hall of the Companions.

Karliah and Aela were down in the Harbinger's quarters, preparing the body. Avalon was only allowed to stay in Jorrvaskr under the condition that she turned over all weapons to Vilkas and allowed Niruin to examine them. Vex also searched her for good measure. (Cicero was given similar treatment, though Delvin did the searching for that one.) Farkas, meanwhile, was with Eorland and Isembard, readying the Skyforge. Ty was to be burned like a Companion, then her bones would be returned to Morrowind and interred in Necrom with her family. I would make the trek myself, for the woman who would have been my wife.

_Oi, _my Clan Ring… I couldn't bring myself to go and get it, but neither Karliah nor Aela would know what it meant. Wearing that band once more would just make it all the more real. There was no twist. The Thalmor weren't trying to make a power play. Mercer hadn't missed. She really was gone.

It was just past noon, and I was sitting on the steps across from the fire pit with Regan and Aisling when Delvin came over to me, asked to see me outside for a moment. I rose to my feet, set my tankard on a side table, and fell into step with the old Breton. He didn't say a word as we made our way out to the training yard.

Once outside, Del turned to me with a deep sorrow etched in his every feature. "I wish I knew what to say to you, Bryn."

I remained quiet. What good were words for a man with nothing to say?

Good ol' Delvin Mallory clapped a hand to my shoulder. "Look, Brynjolf…after you take the bones to Morrowind, after we bury Sapphire in the Guild way… go to Falkreath, lad. Go home. Be with your family." Delvin's hand was shaking on my shoulder. "Stay with them for New Life—'ell, stay with them through _next _New Life, if it helps you. Just… don't rush back to the Guild, now. We'll be all right. Vex and I will keep the place runnin'—you know we will. You just come back to us when you're good and ready, eh? We'll be waitin'."

I bowed my head. "I… I think that might be wise."

Delvin's grin was full of melancholy, for only the fourth time in my memory—once when he'd heard the news of my parents, once when he'd heard the news of Rayno, once… once right after Mercer returned from Snow-Veil Sanctum. "You don't get to be as old as me without learnin' a few things, Bryn."

Later, Jarl Balgruuf himself came down to Jorrvaskr with Irileth in tow—not Proventus Avenicci, which spoke volumes about the Jarl's respect for the Dragonborn. He stood on the far steps as we Thieves, Companions, and Mages assembled in the main hall of Jorrvaskr. Only once everyone was in the room did he withdraw from his sleeve a sealed scroll. "This," he announced, glancing about the room, "is the last will and testament of the Dra—_Tiberia_. Of Tiberia, House Stormcloak, House Morwyn, Great House Redoran. She entrusted it to my House and asked me to read it as soon as possible, should something happen to her." Jarl Balgruuf's face was set in a grimace, and it didn't take a thief's eye like mine to see how he was desperately trying to hold himself together. Weren't we all doing the same thing? (I know I was…)

In full view of the room, he withdrew a dagger from a sheath on his belt and carefully lifted the wax seal from the scroll, unrolling the modest piece of paper (well, "modest," all things considered). I always forgot, Ty had this massive accumulation of wealth scattered across Skyrim. In my grief, my thief's sense wasn't even buzzing. I just wanted to find a sleeping draught and drain it all away.

"On this day, the Fourth of Frostfall, Fourth Era, Year Two-Hundred and One," Jarl Balgruuf began, his nose buried in the scroll, now, "let it be known that Tiberia, House Morwyn, House Stormcloak, Great House Redoran, Daughter of Acacia, House Indoril, House Morwyn, Great Houses Redoran and Indoril, and Ulfric, House Stormcloak, who is Dovahkiin and Dragonborn, Ysmir, Dragon of the North, who is Champion of Azura, Meridia, Peryite, Malacath, Vaermina, Mephala, Sheogorath, Hermaeus Mora, Molag Bal, Sanguine, Hircine, Clavicus Vile, and Mehrunes Dagon; who is the Full Moon Nightingale, Agent of Nocturnal; who is Thane of the Pale, Eastmarch, Haafingar, Whiterun, Hjaalmarch, and Falkreath; who is General Stormblade of the titular Rebellion; who is Harbinger of the Companions, Guildmaster of the Riften Thieves Guild, and Arch-Mage of the most esteemed College of Winterhold; and who is Blood-Bond to Avalon, House Morwyn, House Dres, Great Houses Redoran and Dres, known as Handmaiden to Mephala and Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, has written this Last Will and Testament in full view of Lydia of Riverwood, Argis the Bulwark, Calder of Windhelm, and Jordis the Sword-Maiden. All have signed below in accordance…"

By the bloody Nine, today was the fifteenth of Frostfall. Ty had been writing this _last week, _with her Housecarls as witnesses. Had she known? No, she couldn't have. Someone who kills dragons for a living surely just had the thing as a precaution. With money like hers, I suppose it was more of a thing to worry about before a large battle like this past one. I faded in and out of Jarl Balgruuf's recitation, only catching the names with point of interest attached:

"'… Avalon, House Morwyn, House Dres, Great Houses Redoran and Dres, my dear sister and Blood-Bond, I name you my heir. I leave to you the contents of my homes in Markarth, Solitude, Windhelm, and Whiterun—save what I leave to anyone else on this page. May you find peace and prosperity in Skyrim, sister dear.'" Ty's words, Balgruuf's voice. A strange duality.

"'…To Ondolemar of Alinor, I leave the contents of a chest in my home in Solitude—the one with my Dunmeris initials haphazardly carved into it. Jordis knows the one. Also… take care of my sister, Goldenrod. And that's an order, not a request. I am not above haunting you."

"'…To Karliah, House and Great House Indoril, dear cousin and fellow Nightingale, I grant unto you the title of Oathman within House Redoran. 'Tis about as high as titles get without anyone else to back me up, I'm afraid. I know you will make my House as proud to stand with you as I have been.'" All eyes in the room were suddenly on Karliah, who had a closed fist set over her heart in the Stormblade salute for her fallen kinswoman.

"'…To Ralof of Riverwood, my oldest Nord friend and fellow escapee, you will find my gift to you with your sister. Sorry; I just couldn't think of a safer place. Be sure to bring her some jewelry to pay her back for me, 'ey Shield-Brother? There should be something suitable in Breezehome. Or Proudspire Manor. Probably the latter, actually."

"'…To Vilkas of the Companions, my Soul-Bond and good friend, I leave the contents of my personal library in Markarth, and I name you Harbinger of the Companions. Bear it well, icebrain.'" Another insult, but this one coupled with such an honor… aye, these were Ty's words all right.

"'…To Farkas of the Companions, my brother in all but blood, I leave you a token to Olava the Feeble. She has the Sight too, and may be able to help you combat yours. Long life, pack brother, and much happiness I wish you."

"'…To Aela the Huntress, my Shield-Sister and mentor, I leave Hircine's Ring. I found it very useful in controlling my Beast Blood in times of great stress. And may the Father of Manbeasts lead you well, sister."

"'…To Legate Octavia Vexus, better known as the incorrigible Vex and as best a Guildsister one could ask for, I leave you Dawnbreaker. Carry it well, _fahdon, _and remember to stop by Meridia's Shrine once in a while to give thanks. I think you'll remember where that is." Vex bowed her head in remembrance for the night she, Delvin, and I broke Ty out of the Thalmor embassy.

"'…To Tonilia of Stros M'Kai, who took me under her wing and taught me the ways of the Guild, I can leave naught but a recommendation to induct you as the new Agent of Strife.'" Shit, that was right. The Trinity was down to two. Another stinging pain in my chest, at that. "'Shadows hide you, Guildsister.'"

"'…To Delvin Mallory, I leave a decanter from Honningbrew Meadery, a Queen Bee Statue from Goldenglow, a model ship from some gods-forsaken ruin in the middle of the Winterhold, and a bust of the Grey Fox I borrowed from Master Frey—that is, if you can _find_ any of it, Del.'" Unexpected laughter bubbled up from the Thieves Guild. Delvin had repossessed those a while ago, and Ty knew it.

"'…To Brynjolf of Falkreath, my best friend and dearest love, I leave Mehrunes' Razor to bear with his blessing, but you knew that. Had to write it, though. Daedra are persnickety like that. I also leave to you the contents of the chest at the foot of my bed in Windhelm—Calder knows the one—and finally and perhaps most importantly, I name you Guildmaster of the Riften Thieves Guild—_and don't you dare decline or so help me Azura I will haunt you 'til Alduin comes again."_

I could feel the eyes of the room on me, and could do naught but bow my head, as Vilkas had. Is this how the lass always felt? Having authority you never desired or deserved dumped in your lap? I could hear her reasoning in my head, but that didn't mean I wanted the job. I resolved, right then, to take up her mantle regardless.

"'…To Tolfdir of Windhelm, I leave the Mask of the Dragon Priest Nahkriin. 'Tis the one with the red-orange enchantment, and the deep grey metal. I also pass unto you the title of Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold. May Julianos guide your endeavours, my friend."

"'…To Jarl Balgruuf the Greater…" He was as shocked as anyone to see his name there. "…I believe I owe you a set of armor, so take what you like from my armory in Windhelm. 'Tis the best-stocked, given my Stormcloak years and all. Also, when the moot finally meets, you will cast your vote for Farkas of the Companions as High King of Skyrim...'"

The room was in an uproar, and no one was more confused than Farkas. "Does she say why?" the older of the Twins asked, silencing the room with his imperturbable calm. Vilkas was displaying enough agitation for the both of them, anyway.

Jarl Balgruuf nodded, though he still seemed confused. "'…for Skyrim has had enough manipulators on the throne and false kings to last her a lifetime. An _elfish _lifetime. 'Tis time she was governed by a true Nord, a born-and-bred Son of Snow, who knows life well, on the battlefield and in the home.'"

"…And Avalon and Karliah, I have an important task for the two of you. I need you to gather up all the Daedric Artifacts I have been blessed with (save the ones bequeathed to someone) and put them in the Guild vault. There is, after all, no safer place for them in all Skyrim, and we can't have just anyone stumbling upon them. And remind the Guild, that should one of them go missing at some point, 'tis merely the Prince taking it back."

"'…And to the Companions as a whole, as well as the Thieves Guild, I leave a single knucklebone to each. Begin a ghostfence—Karliah and Avalon know how, but so will any Dunmer worth her weight in ash—and set up a Waiting Door, and I will always come to defend you, just as I did in life…'"

A sharp gasp from all the Dunmer in the room caused Jarl Balgruuf to look up. "Is something wrong?"

"That… is the biggest _sacrifice _she could make," Avalon answered, her eyes wide. "Without a full skeleton, her body will never truly rest. Ghostfences keep out evil spirits, and her spirit can be summoned using that knucklebone in times of dire need… Mephala's black mercy, what an _honor_."

"And only done willingly," Athis added quietly, "out of great love."

-)

After Avalon spontaneously burst into tears for the fourth time (and after having Ondolemar shoot me the same look that just pleaded for help), my carefully composed patience was at its end. I tore out of Jorrvaskr and out into the frigid air of Skyrim's twilight, and without my intent, my feet travelled down the well-pounded path to the statue of Talos in the Gildergreen plaza, tracing the route I'd run during that fateful game of tag with the village children, keeping to the Shadows and wondering, always wondering.

I couldn't get inside her head. For the life of me, for the love of Talos, I could _not_ get inside her head. Why wouldn't she let Avalon help her? Why would Mercer care what became of her? Why were the gods so cruel, and why—_Sheogorath's mercy—why _did it have to be Ty?

I found myself climbing up to the roof of Dragonsreach, half-expecting to hear an exasperated "I have to _Shout _to get up here!" upon reaching the summit. I found only silence and solitude, just like Tiberia always wanted when she came up here. I realize now why she was always climbing up on roofs, to the tops of walls, giving speeches on tables and the Twins' shoulders, and looking at the stars. It was as close as her physical body allowed her to be to the sky. She was a _dovah _born without wings. Of _course _she was always trying to fly.

I watched the moons rise from this perch, and the temperature plummeted the longer I sat there. Nord blood only does so much, especially in Guild Armor. And if _I _was cold… no wonder Tiberia and Karliah were always shivering. I debated going back to Jorrvaskr, but I just couldn't bring myself to face everyone. I heard a noise from over the side, and my brow furrowed. I was just as surprised as the second intruder upon making eye contact.

"Shit," swore Vilkas.

"Shit," I agreed.

"I'll just, ah…"

"Don't worry about it," I interrupted. "You're already here, might as well stargaze."

And that was how I came to be sitting on the roof of Dragonsreach alongside a man who made no secret his intense dislike for me. The feeling was rather mutual. But in light of recent events, our animosity had been put on hold in favor of keeping the rabble Ty had commanded in line. At least, it was until we all paid proper respects to the woman who laid down her life for the likes of us. (How one woman managed to keep so many factions in line and intact was beyond the both of us.)

Vilkas was the one who broke the silence. I was beginning to see where Tiberia had picked up the habit. "So what are you doing up here, thief?"

"Same thing you are, wolf." I glanced up to the stars, and my frosty breath followed my line of a sight a moment later. "Trying to piece together what Tiberia Morwyn was thinking."

"You can't," offered the wolfman hoarsely. "Trust me."

I attempted to shrug, but I couldn't quite pull it off. "I know."

We were silent for another long while. What was there to say? We weren't _enemies, _technically speaking, but we sure as Oblivion weren't friends, either. We put up with each other for Ty's sake, mostly—and I knew it would stay that way, to honor her memory.

Once again, Vilkas was the one to break the silence. "How did you do it?"

I spared him a glance, and found in his eyes that the question had been asked out of honesty. And so I said, "Do what?"

Vilkas rested his elbows on his knees, not looking at me. "Get her to say yes."

I sized him up with my best evaluating stare, and he half-turned back to face me under its weight. "Do you want the real answer, or the bullshit one that will make you feel better?"

Vilkas was surprised I'd even offered the second option. "The first, if you don't mind."

I snorted frost, and even that went up the heavens. An offering to whichever celestial being was listening. "In all honesty, Vilkas, it was probably because I treated her as an equal on _and off_ the job."

Vilkas wrinkled his nose in discontent. Funny, how much these werewolves reflected their inner beasts when you were paying attention. "Of course Morwyn was my equal. Just… a woman."

"See? There's your problem."

"So you're saying you _didn't _treat her as you do a lady?"

"No, fetcher." The Guild insult rolled off my tongue before I could stop it. "That isn't what I meant, and you know it. I'm not talking about chivalry: I never laid a hand on her in anger, never pushed her to do anything discomforting, never let the lass pay for a damn thing—I'm not talking about that. I'm _talking _about standing a level playing field."

"I… don't think I understand." Vilkas hated admitting that. It was written across his face.

Out of respect for what he meant to Ty, I elaborated without comment. "Look, Jergenson, it's more simple than you realize. You asked her to be a _wife; _I asked her to be a _partner. _Maybe it's just the philosophy of a Companion versus that of a thief, but everyone is equal down in that Ratway. We're hardly the upper crust—we don't get to be picky about who joins ranks." In an (admittedly vain) attempt at my characteristic good humor, I added, "How else do you think a backwoods Nord like me got be Guild Second?"

"Guildmaster," Vilkas commented quietly, not even attempting a smile. "You're Guildmaster, now."

I'd already forgotten the new title. "Right," I said, and my voice grew quiet. "Guildmaster. Unofficially, for now." I drew in a deep breath, and continued closer to my normal volume. "But anyway, if I had to venture a guess, I'd say you're more of a traditionalist than a Clansman when it comes to certain things. Marriage is one of them."

"I suppose," Vilkas conceded faintly, "that's a fair enough reason."

The man sounded so dejected. I couldn't leave him like that in good conscience. "She always spoke very highly of you, you know."

Vilkas arched an eyebrow. "Truly? After everything we'd been through, that's surprising."

"I never said she didn't call you an icebrain." He snorted at that. "But when it came time for a fight, there was no one else Ty would rather have by her side…" I drew in a breath. "…not even me."

"You both dual-wield," Vilkas dismissed. "You'd have cut each other's heads off." He let out a breath of his own, then. "You made her happy, thief. That's more than I can claim, really. I suppose I should be thanking you or something, but I'm more like to push you off the roof, here."

I actually laughed at that, a weak and underused thing given the past day. "Wouldn't be the first time." I sighed, then. "Say what you like about my profession, Vilkas, but I'll be glad to go back to dealing in something other than death. I've had enough of it this past month to last a lifetime."

Vilkas bowed his head. "As much as it pains me to admit, Brynjolf, I'll agree with you there." There was a long pause, and then he said, "By the by, Farkas and I are going to Ysgramor's tomb to cleanse the Harbinger of the Beast Blood after the funeral—we've still got a Glenmoril Witch's head. We…" Insert frustrated sigh here. "…You're welcome to join us. You can handle yourself all right in a fight."

"That must have been so painful for you to offer…"

Vilkas let out a short, barking laugh like a whipcrack at that. "You have no idea."

My usual smirk regained its place on my face, if only for a moment. "I suppose you'll be happy to know that I appreciate the offer, but I feel that's best left up to Companions." I paused. "And _you're_ Harbinger now, wolf."

The news sobered up him immediately. "I can't believe she's really gone. She's too stubborn to die. Too solid."

"Too legendary," I agreed.

Another lengthy silence.

"You know," Vilkas remarked, "I feel like in a different life, we might have been friends."

I nodded. "I feel like that's probably fairly accurate."


	95. Lost in Translation

**Hey all, have a chapter. This one also was being stubborn. But I like how it turned out, especially the middle.**

**And as always, thank you to my wonderful readers, lurkers and reviewers :) y'all make my day.**

**And the non-PM crew:**

**Serendipity: I'm glad you enjoy my work :) Though as far as sorrow goes, 'tis what happens, I'm afraid, when the main character dies. Thank you so much for leaving me your thoughts :)**

**Lyriel: it's not easy to do, but I have done it before. And thank you so much :) and of course the Twins will cure her of the Blood. She hated it.**

**J'zargo: Sorry, friend. Age trumps all :)**

**LOOPHOLE: yes. That is indeed a plothole. Brynjolf notices.**

**We know: Sadly, I think that only works when you're trying to break your ties to Coldharbour**

**On and on although you're gone / Candles burn without a flame on.**

** -Bullet for My Valentine, 10 Years Today**

**-)**

We burned Njada Stonearm, Companion-style, five days after the Battle of Whiterun.

The entirety of the Companions, the Mages College, and the Thieves Guild stood around the Skyforge as the Circle (and Njada's sister, who came up from Falkreath) relayed the ancient words. The woman herself was atop the pyre, clad in a loincloth and breast band—symbolically, clean as her name day. Karliah or Aela—probably Karliah, all things considered-had painstakingly sewn Njada's head back to her body, with stitches so tiny you'd never know she'd lost her head, so that her spirit would be whole in the afterlife. Sovngarde definitely awaited for that Companion.

Afterwards, we all sat around Jorrvaskr, raising our mugs and drinking in her name, reveling in her stories, and celebrating her life even as we mourned her death. Athis was disconsolate, having been her Shield-Brother during the battle. Not to mention, for all the times they'd wailed on each other in the main hall of Jorrvaskr, for all the snide remarks back-and-forth, the two of them had been something edging dangerously close to friends. The closest thing Njada had, I'm sure, given her caustic personality.

More and more people were filtering into Whiterun to pay their final respects to the Dragonborn, and so Companions who had long since retired and family of those still living had joined us in the mead hall. The rest of the College had come down from Winterhold, and I'm pretty sure half the city of Riften was now here, as well. People stayed with friends, in Dragonsreach, even camped outside the city walls. Most of the Jarls were on their way as well, to pay respects to their Thane. All of Skyrim, it seemed, was converging on the central city.

Morning turned to noon, turned to afternoon. All the revelry was forced, all the stories sour. I hadn't truly known Njada, not like her Shield-Siblings had. And so I drank in her honor, as a true Nord should, but all the while a vice was constricting around my heart. My fingers were leaving dents in my tankards. There was a white-hot rage boiling in my blood, and I knew it well. It was what earned me the nickname Big, Bad Brynjolf. It was what made me Clan. Last time I'd felt it so strongly had been the night of Raynor's death. But now was not the time for rage. That would come later, when I was alone.

Avalon approached me sometime in midafternoon. "Brynjolf," she greeted, claiming the side of the pillar adjacent to the one I leaned against, "I have something to ask of you."

My eyes didn't leave Ria, who was telling a story about the time Njada had attempted to teach her how to block, as I surveyed her over the rim of my tankard. Nevertheless, I answered, "And what would that be, Avalon?"

Her crisp, elven accent floated over the roaring laugher within Jorrvaskr. So similar to Ty's, and yet so different. "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the battlefield today? I need to look for Neva's remains."

Mead shot out of my nose in surprise, and I cursed my misfortune. (Thankfully, no one seemed to notice.) "And why," I began, bringing my hand to my nose as it stung something fierce, "in the sixteen realms of Oblivion are you going out looking for that _murderess?"_

I turned to glance at Avalon now, and I noted that her face was set in grim lines. "If our House catches wind that both of my sisters died in the same battle and I only bring back one, there will be the devil to pay." She spared me a glance then, fire blazing behind her eyes. "And I won't pay it. 'Tis easier this way."

As good a reason as any, I supposed. Elves and their customs… it was mind-numbing sometimes. "Then lead the way, Lady Morwyn." Her title—Ty's title—did little to loosen the clamp on my heart. How the thing was still beating was nothing short of a miracle.

And that was how I came to be combing the plains surrounding the city of Whiterun, looking for a one-eyed, one-handed, Dunmeri corpse dressed in the robes of the Aldmeri Dominion. There was an uncharacteristic silence over this battlefield. The blood had soaked the earth, making it unfit to farm for a good long while. The only animals still brave enough to venture over the plains were crows, ravens, skeevers—scavengers, one and all. We stepped over the dead as carefully as we could.

"We don't have to find _all _of her skeleton," Avalon said quietly to me. "Just enough to make it look like we tried. Besides, the bitch will never see Aetherius if I can help it."

"Not that I don't understand the significance," I replied just as quietly, thanking Nocturnal profusely for my thief-like skill of averting obstacles, "but why'd you ask me for help, lass? Ondolemar would make more sense, or hell, even Cicero."

"Neither the High Elf nor the Imperial is family."

"That isn't for the former's lack of trying." It was out before I could stop it.

She shot me a look over her shoulder. "What are you on about?"

"Avalon, come now. Ondolemar's absolutely crazy about you. It's bloody obvious." And kind of hurt to watch.

"You lie."

I rolled my eyes. "And you're blinder than your sister in this respect, then."

I diverted the direction I'd been walking in because I spotted a likely-looking body and the place was the right distance from the hill where Ty had made her last stand—and then some. I dropped to a crouch to better examine the remains and heard a quiet, "_Ondolemar? _Really?"

"Really," I confirmed as Avalon dropped to a crouch on the other side of the body. "And he has for some time. Haven't you wondered why he hasn't left your side?" Isn't that what I would have been doing for Ty, had Avalon perished?

Avalon paused to consider this. "I assumed it had something to do with his Blood-Bond, honestly. Mine's…" She broke into silent tears, and lowered her head in embarrassment. "Here I am, one-hundred-and-twenty-eight years old, weeping like an elfling…"

"Avalon." I squeezed her shoulder in solidarity, and she glanced up at me. "You don't have to be indomitable all the time."

"Pretty words, from a Nord."

I snorted despite myself. "And given my profession, hardly unexpected, but true nonetheless."

Avalon rolled her shoulders back, and proclaimed, "This is Neva. Has to be. She's only got one eye and that…" She pointed to a shiny objected embedded in the body's hair—done up in a fashionable Dunmeri style. "…was Neva's favorite hairclip."

I masked my disgust and shouldered the body, even as Avalon shouldered the other limb. "So what do you do with this?"

"Just find somewhere to set her down, for now, away from the carnage. I'll come out here with Karliah and burn her, Dunmeri-style." The poor wretch, went from being the middle child to the only child in the matter of one battle. "I'm taking just the bones back to Morrowind. I'm not carrying a bloody corpse all the way across the province, through the Dunmeth pass, over to Ald'Rhun, and down to Morwyn Manor. Not _bloody_ happening."

I could hear echoes of Tiberia in the way her older sister spoke. My throat constricted, a lump forming that wouldn't leave. If Neva had formed Tiberia's self-esteem, Avalon had forged her armor. Of that much, I was certain.

"Brynjolf…? Hello? Have you heard a word I've been saying?"

Her voice brought me sharply back to Nirn. We both set Neva under a small copse of trees as she spoke. "Sorry, lass," I offered. "My mind's been elsewhere."

Avalon smiled grimly. "Understandable. So's mine." She was a few inches taller than her younger sister, coming up to my chin instead of my shoulders, now that we stood face to face. "But what I said was, listen Nord, I don't care if you and my sister never got around to the tedious exchanging of names…" She clapped me on the shoulder, and I could see she was willing herself not to cry out of sheer stubbornness. "…I consider you family. If you need something—_anything—_you let me know. You hear me, brother?"

Whatever I'd been expecting Avalon to say, it wasn't that. "I hear you, sister. Know that I consider you the same." The lump in my throat _still _wasn't leaving, the bugger. "Know you're always welcome at my hearth."

She hugged me then, the bubbly Dunmeri assassin with more heart than any priestess of Mara. "And I _personally _will sponsor your induction into House Morwyn," she added as she released me. "You will always have a friend in the Morwyn Clan, _muthsera_. I swear it."

I bowed my head, Dunmeri-style. Even a Nord like me knew that this was one of highest honors a Dark Elf could bestow upon an outlander. It was only fair I do the same. "The only way to bring you fully into the Clan is marriage," I said, "and we both know that's just not going to happen. But you'll always be welcome there. Regan and Aisling know you."

Avalon reacted the Nord way. She clasped my hand and clapped me on the shoulder. "I thank you, Brynjolf. Whatever bullshit Neva was always spewing, I knew humans had to be all right. I mean…" She broke out into a weak smile. "…how else could I be related to one?"

I couldn't help but laugh at that.

-)

That night, I dreamt of family.

_The mists of Sovngarde swirled around me as I stood in the fields surrounding the Hall of Valor. The sky was a brilliant purple, and the constellations of the Warrior, Thief, and Mage all shone down unto this realm, forever dominant in the afterlife. Spirits milled about me, bemoaning their fate and refusing directions. I think I saw Ulfric and Galmar at one point. But that wasn't the interesting bit._

_No, what was interesting was watching and older Dunmeri man guiding a little Dunmer girl by the hand through the mists. I say "older" because his dark hair was graying in places, and though he was bigger as Dunmer go, he had clearly been in the midst of losing muscle mass when he died. When he turned his head to glance at something, I noticed that his eyes were a fierce cherry red._

_The same color as Avalon's._

"_Where are we going, Da?" the little elfling asked. I'm shit with age when it comes to Elves, but I know that they tend to age similarly to humans until puberty. By the looks of things, then, this girl couldn't have been older than four or five. Her hair was free and unbound. _

"_Home, little one," replied the man, and I knew it had the Lord Amory. Avalon had his eyes and Neva had his stride._

"_This doesn't look like home," the girl sulked._

_Lord Amory broke out into a soft smile. "It will soon, Tiberia. Have faith."_

_The name was like a physical blow to the chest, it knocked me back. "That's what Mama always says," the little elfling—Tiberia—harrumphed. "'Have faith.'" Even as a child, her talent for mimicry was impressive._

_Before Lord Amory could reply, the little elfling holding his hand morphed into a girl, now closer to ten or eleven years of age. She slid her fingers out of her father's hand upon making the change, and seemed not to notice she'd grown. Her hair was braided, now, the way the adult wore it. "Your mother is right, you know," Lord Amory replied, though it was easy to see his daughter's rapid aging was saddening him._

_I followed Ty and her Elf father through the mists, wondering what in Oblivion was going on. They walked side-by-side, as equals. "Only sometimes," replied the ten-year-old Tiberia. The one who had ordered the hit on Avalon's husband._

_Lord Amory's only reply was "Enough."_

_During the lull in their conversation, Tiberia morphed again, reaching six- or seventeen years of age. This was the one who had escaped from the Summerset Isles, who had joined the Companions. Her dark hair was bound in the true Dunmeri way now, the way Neva had worn hers. "I see why the other races bemoan elfish half-wisdom," Ty remarked. Her voice was dropping, no longer such a high-pitched, little girl's soprano. Closer to the powerful alto I knew almost as well as my own voice._

"_The other races do not understand the meaning of the word wisdom," Lord Amory laughed. "They think themselves wise in matters they know nothing about, the Arcane Arts, the ways of the heart…"_

"_Elves don't understand the latter either," Ty interrupted._

_Lord Amory only laughed. "Hush, child." _

_I realized now why Ty's gait looked so strange: she didn't have her swords. Only in sleep did she ever remove her swordbelt, only at Tonilia's wedding had she voluntarily gone out into the world without it. This one didn't even have a dagger in her boot. The unarmed Dragonborn unnerved me even more than her rapid aging, which, if I had to guess, was magicka-induced. The Dragonborn unarmed was vulnerable. The Dragonborn unarmed was just a woman. "Why?" Tiberia huffed. "Why should I be silent?"_

"_You hear, little one, but you do not listen." Vilkas' words, Amory's voice. "Azura only knows how often I told you this. 'Tis what killed you, in the end."_

"_Perhaps," admitted a now slightly-older Tiberia. If I had to guess, she was closer to twenty, twenty-one—the age she'd been when she'd slain the World-Eater. She wore her hair now in many Nordic braids. "Or perhaps 'tis the fate of those who burn too bright and are born of fire."_

"_Dunmer are born of ash, little one," Lord Amory corrected lightly. "Even those of us in the Great Houses." As opposed to Ashlanders._

_Tiberia flashed her infamous grin. "_Dovah _aren't."_

_Lord Amory grew quiet at that. "You were always so full of fire, little one. Anyone could see your bloodlines at work in you, if they looked hard enough."_

"_That's what started me on the path," Tiberia agreed. She was aging more slowly now. She had to be twenty-two or –three, the age when she'd become Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold. Back the bound hair, like Faralda, like Neva. "The Dovahsos, my Nord face."_

"_Those were merely catalysts," Lord Amory scoffed. From that statement, I figured Avalon had inherited her talent with potions and poisons from him. "You were the one to set off the firecracker."_

"_Sure, sure," laughed the Tiberia I'd known—the twenty-five year old spitfire, with her hair pulled back at the crown and braided the Nordic way. "As if I would have done anything less."_

_She and her father stood just before the Whalebone Bridge, just before the Hall of Valor. A man, large as a giant, stood in a battle-ready stance: Tsun, the guardian of Shor's Hall. "Go on, my child," Lord Amory said, handing Tiberia her twin swords. Funny, I hadn't even noticed he'd been wearing them. "Fulfill your destiny."_

_Tiberia buckled the swordbelt over her hips, and drew two swords—a ceremonial, Dunmeri longsword, and her Ebony Sword of the Blaze. It had to be hers—I could see the nicks up the side. "Hello, Tsun," she greeted. "Ready for round two?"_

"_Of course, Dragonborn!" the big man laughed. "But what makes you worthy to enter this hall?"_

_She could have said a lot of things—I am Dovahkiin, Harbinger, Guildmaster, Arch-Mage, Thane of most of the Holds, _anything_. Instead, she said, "I have lived my life with honor." _

_Tsun nodded. "Then let us begin." _

_She was no different a warrior in death than she had been in life. Always on the vanguard, always first to strike. "You are neither dead, nor dying," remarked a heavily-accented Dunmeri voice. "What brings you here?"_

_I turned to my left and found Lord Amory appraising me with heavy brows and arms folded across his chest. "I don't know," I said truthfully. Then, I blurted out, "What brings _you_ here, Lord Amory?"_

_He let out a whipcrack bark of laughter. "What indeed, Nord! What else but Sheogorath? Who else, I suppose."_

"_Sheogorath sent you to Sovngarde for Ty?" Now that didn't make any bloody sense. _

"_With her, as it were," the Dark Elven Lord corrected lightly, then added, "Brynjolf. You must be Brynjolf."_

_I cocked an eyebrow. "You know of me?"_

"_Of course I know of you, boy!" He had a booming voice, a loud personality. Tiberia was a lot like him, in that respect. No wonder no one questioned Ty's parentage that deeply. It was like as not Lord Amory was her father, before the Dovahsos rose in her. "I have kept an eye on _all_ the men my daughters have courted." He snorted. "I daresay, you are one of the better ones. Not like that pompous Cyrano or that s'wit Mordred."_

_That meant more than expected, coming from my lass' father. "Good to know." Quickly, I changed the subject. "Why did your Lord Sheogorath send you here, then? Surely he would have wanted Tiberia in the Shivering Isles with him for all eternity."_

"_My littlest one was never destined for anything but Sovngarde," Lord Amory tried to scoff, but his voice held too much sorrow. "The Daedra know this—Lord Sheogorath, Mistress Nocturnal—but some attempt to fight it anyway."_

"_But not the MadGod?"_

_Lord Amory nodded. "Who else would think of such an ingenious way to disguise her?" He gestured to his youngest daughter, the one that bore none of his blood. She was still locked in mortal (immortal?) combat with Tsun. "Mistress Nocturnal, Lord Hircine… they're looking for a fully grown warrior. Not an elfling. Not a Dunmeri maiden."_

_The MadGod was bloody brilliant sometimes, just like Ty. Or, rather, Tiberia was brilliant just like her patron. Whichever way you wanted to look at it, I suppose. "And he asked you to bring her here?"_

_Again, Lord Amory nodded, looking regal the way Elves do in the children's tales. "He thought it best."_

_We settled into silence for a moment, watching Tsun wipe the floor with Tiberia before she turned the tables and returned the favor. "Did you know?" I asked quietly._

"_That she wasn't my daughter?" He clarified._

"_Aye."_

"_Yes."_

_Surprised, I whipped my gaze to scrutinize his face, but the Lord Amory was still transfixed by the fight. "You knew," I ventured, "and you still sacrificed everything for her?" Gave up his sanity, bartered with Daedra._

"_Being one's true father," Lord Amory replied succinctly, "does not make you one's real father." He then spared a glance for me. "You would do well to remember that, Nord."_

_Before I could reply, a large thud resounded from just before the Whalebone Bridge. Both Lord Amory and I turned to look, and there was Tiberia with her boot in the small of Tsun's back. One hell of a warrior, my lass was. "I do believe that takes care of that," she said, sheathing her swords and brushing her hands on her thighs in a show of completion. She then offered a hand to the large man, who gratefully accepted the leg up._

_It was now or never. "Lord Amory," I asked carefully, before I lost the nerve, "do you know what the Beast of Fire and Skies is?"_

"_The _Sunvaarseyollokke," _corrected a different smoothly accented voice, one I knew very well. I glanced up and found Ty standing at the mouth of the Whalebone bridge, her body half-turned to face me, Tsun, and her father. The fire was back in those eyes, and I couldn't help but smile, even just a little. "You know, I asked some people about it."_

"_Right," I called to her, "the _Sunvaarseyollokke." _The Draconic felt strange on my tongue. "What does it mean?"_

_Tiberia's smirk was back. "A _Sunvaarseyollokke, _my friend, is a phoenix."_

_And she strode across the bridge with her head held high._

I jerked out of my dream so forcefully, I fell completely out of bed and slammed my head into the table standing at attention beside it. (I had claimed one of the beds in the Whelps' room during my time in Jorrvaskr.) I sat up, rubbing at my now-aching head, and the furs fell away around me. _Karliah_. I needed to talk to Karliah. Or Avalon. Or Athis. Someone with knowledge of Dark Elf lore.

I yanked a shirt over my head in an attempt to gain _some _form of modesty and glanced about the Whelps' room. It had to be excruciatingly late—no one else had even stirred at the racket I'd been making. _You're awful loud to be a thief, _Raynor always told me. I'd always told him to shut up.

Most of my Guildsisters had been camping out in the spare room of the Circle's, given the absence of the Guildmaster. But that isn't where a Dunmer would be, not on a night like this. And so I padded carefully up the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky step, and made my way out into the main hall. As expected, Karliah was sitting on the steps with her knees folded against her chest, arms encircling them, and staring unblinkingly into the fire.

"Mind if I join you?" I asked quietly, as so not to startle her.

Karliah jumped anyway. "Not at all, Guildbrother." She waved vaguely to the ground beside her. As I joined her on the steps, she said, "What troubles you, Brynjolf? It's written across your face."

"What is a phoenix, Karliah? I mean, other than the legendary bird that rises from its own ashes every thousand years or so."

"Exactly that." She fixed me with her indigo gaze, such a strange color for a Dunmer. Ty mentioned once that it was probably the Indoril blood. Indoril Nerevar had possessed something similar, or so the legends went. "Why do you ask?"

"I had this strange dream." It sounded stupid, out loud. "I felt like I was there, but not there. I was in Sovngarde. I spoke to Lord Amory. And Tiberia was fighting Tsun. She said that's what _Sunvaarseyollokke _meant."

Karliah's brow furrowed. "Perhaps Vaermina was speaking to you."

"I wouldn't know, Guildsister."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't…" Karliah trailed off, racking her brains for something, _anything_. Then, all at once, her eyes snapped open and undoubtedly, her blood ran cold. "There was once a great dragon living under Red Mountain. He fed on the flames and was nourished by the spirits that the Great Ghostfence trapped inside." Her words were heavy with the knowledge of generations past. "He lived there for so long, with no family, no mate, no children, that common lore was that he had died a few times and had risen from his own ashes, like the mythic phoenix. The Phoenix Dragon he was called. Only in Dunmeris, which makes it sound more majestic." She cracked a weak smile.

"But _dovah _never really die," I quoted Tiberia, ignoring the joke, "they are only lost to time."

"And that thing… oh for simplicity's sake, let's say it _was _a Phoenix Dragon… it was created from Ancestor Magic. _Powerful _Ancestor Magic. So much so that even I felt it, and I'm a _very _distant cousin from Acacia—Tiberia, even more so."

"And if dragons are the children of Akatosh," I said, thinking aloud, "and the Dragon Blood from Tiber Septim's bloodline allowed Akatosh to come into the world as a dragon before…" Karliah and I locked stares.

"He could do it again, given the artifact of a god," Karliah finished. Then an even chillier thought. "He may very well have. Didn't Tiberia make that armor from the bones of Alduin, your God of Destruction?"

"I thought it was an Elder Dragon," I offered up, "but… she may have. Maybe part of it was from Alduin. Who knows?"

"A _phoenix _dragon." Karliah whistled through her teeth. "I don't believe it."

"Or maybe," I said, still half in that I'm-just-throwing-out-ideas stage, "a dragon with the legacy of a phoenix."


	96. Daughter of Skyrim

**Hey all, have a chapter.**

**And as always, a BIG thank you to all you wonderful readers, lurkers, and reviewers :) you guys are the best.**

**And the Non-PM crew:**

**We know: Trust me. I know what I'm doing.**

**Lyriel: You can do it! :D the phoenix for Ty means, like it does for a dovah, that she doesn't really die. She's only lost to time.**

**Onward.**

**-)**

The day of Tiberia's funeral, I stood in the main hall of Jorrvaskr with my hands behind my back, my feet firmly planted on the ground, and scrutinized Eorland's work before me.

The old smith had mounted Ty's Ebony Sword of the Blaze on a plaque, alongside her Nightingale's Talons and the tattered left bracer from her now-decimated Dragonbone armor. Nestled at the bottom end of this plaque was a single, pure white knucklebone, and written above it, in ink black as night, was the Daedric letter O—an Oblivion Gate. Her ghostfence, like her life, was a combination of her Nordic and Dunmer ancestry. Nords mounted the weapons of their greatest heroes. Dunmer made waiting doors with their ancestors' bones.

"I think you've been missing this, Clansman," greeted a gruff, accented voice.

I turned just in time to catch the tiny, glittering thing Vilkas threw at me. I opened my hand a moment later and there sat my Clan Ring, clean as the day I'd given it to the lass. I glanced up to Vilkas, eyes questioning. "Thank you kindly, Companion. But how…?"

"Soul-Bond," the younger of the Wolf Twins reminded me drily. "I knew what was important to her. Asked Aela to make sure you got it back."

_Knew. _We were already using the past tense in reference to her. The vice on my heart tightened in response. Soon she would be just a memory, a story told by the fire, a legend told to children to get them to behave. I absentmindedly slipped the silver band onto my little finger, the weight both familiar and alien. Vilkas joined me in scrutinizing the ghostfence.

"She left us _wide _open!" the wolfman suddenly snapped, slamming a fist into the other's open palm. "The only thing keeping the Thalmor out of Skyrim was the Dragonborn, and now…" The words unexpectedly caught in his throat. (I say 'unexpectedly' because I sensed a full-on rant coming. Vilkas had a penchant for them.)

"She didn't leave us wide open," I said in a quiet voice, just now realizing this myself. "She left us perfectly armed." I spared him a glance, and found the werewolf shooting me a questioning look. I had been raging at the same thing the other day, but the bitter clarity of this morning was enlightening. "Look, the only way we're going to drive the Thalmor out of Skyrim is by giving her something to fight for, eh?"

"Aye…?" Vilkas had no idea where I was going with this.

"The Warrior…" I gestured to him. "…the Thief…" To myself. "…and the Mage…" to Tolfdir across the room. "…are all standing in the same room, under the same banner, feeling the same need for some good, old-fashioned revenge on the fetchers."

There was silence a moment, then the declaration: "That bloody brilliant bastard!"

I smirked despite myself. "She always was. Though I doubt it was so calculated on her part. Perhaps on Sheogorath's."

"Or Akatosh's," Vilkas commented dryly.

My conversation with Karliah came to mind, and the stories I'd heard of the Oblivion Crisis. "Perhaps."

"Harbinger, Guildmaster." A gnarled hand came down on both my shoulder and Vilkas'. Only mages had such oddly gnarled hands—it was Tolfdir. "It's time."

We both nodded. "Then let us go." Vilkas fell back into Companions speech as a defense mechanism. I fell back into talking like an uneducated Clansman.

I pushed open the doors to the Jorrvaskr training yard, and the steady thrum that had been sounding all morning grew even louder. Regan was sitting atop the wall in full Clan Tartan, playing a mournful tune on the bagpipes. (He'd been at it all morning, and frankly, I was surprised no one in town had thrown a rock at him by now.) It was the only proper way to send a Clansman to meet his Maker, and Tiberia was close enough. The stentorian, reedy playing of the _Song of the Dragonborn _was a fitting tribute to the fallen warrior.

We continued through the training yard, following the congregation of people up to Skyforge. The eagle's wings were spread wide over the ever-burning embers, as ever. Eorland and Isembard had prepared the pyre, all twisting spires and dark wood reaching with clawed fingers towards the firmament. Atop the contraption lay the Dragonborn, clad in just a breastband and loincloth, symbolically naked as her name day. Somewhere in Morrowind, her mother was turning over in her grave.

I fell into line with my Guildsiblings, not for the first time at their helm. Vilkas assimilated into the Companions, a pillar of strength for his grieving Shield-Siblings. Tolfdir stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his colleagues, the old man as indomitable as any of the young men keeping vigil here. So many people had come to pay their respects to the Dragonborn. There were Jarls and farmers alike standing on that outcropping, men and mer of all races, soldiers and thieves, Priests of Mehrunes Dagon and of Mara. It seemed everyone whose lives had ever been touched by Tiberia Morwyn were standing here today, in the winter's chill. It was twilight, the peaceful time, Ty's favorite time.

"Before the Ancient Flame…" Avalon's voice rang out, light and lithe in the way of Morrowind. She strode forward, the torch in her right hand high, and though there were tears shining on her face, she did not weep.

"…We grieve," the rest of us replied in somber unison. This weren't just Companions' words, they belonged to all Nords. They were Ysgramor's words, Wulfharth's.

Ondolemar was watching the lass with a mixture of his own sorrow and consternation. He had lost a Blood-Bond, he knew what it was like. Made it all the worse that it was poor Avalon Morwyn who had rolled snake eyes in the celestial game of dice. Her tattoo was ruby-dark as his, now. I had heard her talking to Farkas the other day, explaining that losing a Blood-Bond was like losing a twin; the severance could be unbearable. The wolfman had been visibly shocked, proclaiming that he couldn't fathom losing Vilkas. Ondolemar had just nodded.

"At this loss…" Vilkas continued, his accent a shock compared to Avalon's. It was thick and rough, coarse like Skyrim herself. His shoulders were shaking with barely-contained rage, with deep, evident sorrow. But his voice did not.

"…We weep."

A lot of people—a _lot _of people—were doing just that. If Ty were here, she'd be gently slapping each and every one of them. Why are you crying, she'd say, can't you see you've so much to live for?

And we would live. _I _would live. I would shoulder her legacy and carry on her mission. I owed the lass so much, I could hardly do any less. And if I didn't… hell, who would?

"For the Fallen…" Tolfdir added, the old man cutting through the rising darkness swiftly and roughly.

I had never dealt much with Mages before my time here in Jorrvaskr, and like most in Skyrim, had an inherent dislike of them. Toldfir and Faralda, J'zargo and Onmund, they'd taught me better than that. Even as far as to show me a few hedge spells. That sort of unity was what Tiberia had strived to achieve for Skyrim. And soon—as soon as I could make it so—she would have it.

"…We shout."

As did she.

"And for ourselves…" I finished in my Falkreath cadence, smoother than most Nords' and rougher than any elf's. All my years in Riften, it had never left me.

I glanced up to the top of the pyre, where my lass lay in the rising darkness. One hell of woman she was. One hell of a warrior. One hell of a _person._ I would miss her more than I could say. But I had a job to do, and my Guildsiblings needed me. One day I would join her in Sovngarde—Nocturnal and the Evergloam be damned!—but that day was a long way off.

"…We take our leave."

And Avalon sent her sister to Sovngarde the Companions' way, the Dunmeri way, the _dovahhe's_ way.


	97. Epilogue: Tending the Flames

**Hey all :) It has been a wild ride, and I for one loved every minute of it, but now this story has come to close. I thank all of you wonderful readers, lurkers, and reviewers for sticking by it until the very last word :)**

**Also, I fixed the end of the last chapter, so if it didn't make sense to ya, it may help to reread.**

**And lastly:**

**We know: I did not, but that's brilliant! And yes, go to lolcatz will make you feel better :)**

**Lyriel: as was my intent :) very nice! You can do it! :D**

**Insertusername: thank you :D I'm glad you enjoy my work. Chh, reverse psychology.**

**Onward. **

**-)**

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Riften Faction, I've something that demands your attention—_me! _Ha, there is a story you lot need to hear. It is my biggest Scar and greatest Story. And I promised her, a great many years ago, that I'd tell it.

"_Aye _lads and lasses it has been… sweet Sheogorath, how long have I been in this Guild? … Fifty years. _Talos, _I'm old. Fifty years I have called the Ratway home, fifty years I have worn this armor, and called the others who do so Guildbrother or Guildsister.

"I am older now than Mercer Frey, the old bastard, was when the Dragonborn tore out his black heart. I am older now than Delvin Mallory was when he finally passed on—gods rest his soul. I am much, _much _older now than my older brother ever grew to be. And I am older now than the Dovahkiin herself ever was, for all her elven blood.

"Fifty years I have served the Thieves Guild like my mother and father before me, and my brother as well. I have served as Guildmaster for thirty-six of those fifty years, the longest reign in Guild history. The second longest clocked out at twenty-five years, and was held by none other than Mercer Frey—the killer, the betrayer, the Nightingale.

"But longevity does not always coincide with excellence. We all know Mercer Frey was a lying, cheating git and Gallus Desidenius served five years before him with nary a complaint. Ask the lovely Karliah Indoril about either of those men, and she'll tell you better than I can.

"So if longevity isn't a measure of excellence—what is? Is it the coin you bring in? Hardly. Some of our worst thieves have been our greatest leaders. Is it the legacy you shoulder? No. Half of you are rescued from Honorhall. So what is it, then? I tell you—it is the legacy you leave behind. It is the how your Guildsiblings speak of you when you're gone. It is the legend you leave in this tavern.

"My mother, for instance, Juri of Solitude—that's a name you all know. But it isn't because of me that you know it, it is from everyone else. From Delvin and Mercer, dead all these years. From Niruin and Karliah. From Cynric Endell, dead these thirty years. Her legend lives on through them and through you.

"So who has the greatest legend of us all? It isn't me, or Delvin Mallory, or Vex, or Karliah, or even Mercer Frey. No, it is that of Guildmaster Tiberia Morwyn—Stormblade, Harbinger, Arch-Mage, Dragonborn to some; just Ty to us. It is _her _legacy that will last a thousand years. It's her knucklebone over there on the wall, you know. She left it to us to create a ghostfence. Dunmeri tradition holds that without a full skeleton, your soul will never truly rest. But she left it to us anyway, to be sure that she could always defend her Guildsiblings. Her spirit has been called upon, once or twice over the years, to defend our home. And she comes willingly, without complaint, even though I _know _Sovngarde has to be better than this dingy place. But that is _sacrifice, _that is _love… _that is Tiberia.

"You know her stories—the Hero of the Dragon Crisis, the Guildmaster who saved us from the brink of destruction—but do you know the woman?

"She was roughly yea tall, and had a habit of standing on tables or sitting on the shoulders of either Farkas or Vilkas of the Companions to give speeches. She had an ever-burning fire behind crimson eyes, and skin this beautifully peculiar shade of blue. She had a voice to rock the rafters, even if she wasn't capital-S Shouting. She was a warrior of the highest order, a masterful Spellsword. Her Ebony Sword of the Blaze now hangs in Jorrvaskr, the Mead Hall of the Companions, and coupled with another knucklebone, serves as their ghostfence. Her other sword, Dawnbreaker, Meridia's gift to her Champion, is now borne by our little Vex—the only swordswoman with the steel in her. Her dagger, Mehrunes' Razor, was bequeathed to me so that her Lord Dagon would watch over me in her absence. She was, after all, a fervent Daedra Worshipper, even after eleven years out of Morrowind.

"Tiberia Morwyn came to us a shell—and she freely admitted it. No purpose without the Dragon Crisis, no goals in life anymore, just another throw-away war hero under Ulfric Stormcloak's command—her own unwitting father. Irony, eh? Gets me every time. But what else happens to a war hero? After you've killed the World-Eater, what do you do?

"Clean up the Thieves Guild and fall in love, I guess.

"But what makes her legacy so great? She brought us back from the depths of Oblivion—fitting, no? She killed Mercer Frey. She defended us at the Battle of Riften. She served as Guildmaster. She was a Nightingale, the Agent of Strife. All in under a year. No lads and lasses, it is my belief that the Guild would not still exist if not for that woman, gods rest her soul.

"The greatest honor one can bestow upon a Dunmer is to speak their name after their death, and make them live again. Thirty-six years I've lived without the lass, but her name has not died—for I tell her story.

"I'm old now, my friends, not long for this world. I can hear Sovngarde calling to me. I have no doubt where I'm going, and if, but some twist of fate, I end up in the Evergloam instead, I have no doubt Tiberia would drag me to Sovngarde by the scruff of my neck, Shouting at Nocturnal all the while. Every day, it gets a little harder to raise my war axe, to drop to a crouch, to get out of bed without her. But I do it, because I have a job to do and people who depend on me. As Tiberia always said, what I do, I do for the Guild.

"What is this job, you ask? It's Tiberia's last legacy, last testament—the Stormblade Rebellion and our war on the Thalmor. I could not tell you how many First Emissaries that our lovely friend, Listener Avalon Morwyn, has assassinated. I could not tell you how many supply trains the Guild has robbed blind and important scrolls we've stolen. I could not tell you how many justiciars have simply have thrown up their hands and left the bloody country because of the hit-and-run, Ty-style tactics of acclaimed Stormblade General and Harbinger Vilkas of the Companions, dead these last few years, Talos rest his soul. I could not tellyou how many times one of his men would have died if not for the aid of a College Mage. And I could not _tell _you how bloody proud I am to be a part of this army.

"I get asked all the time—do you regret courting the Dragonborn? The answer is no. Always no. I would not trade one moment I spent with the lass for all the gold Mercer Frey stole from us. …Truly, I wouldn't. Because if I was even a small part of what made that woman strong enough to lay down her life for a country full of people that tended to spit on her when she passed by… then her legend was not in vain. The time we shared was not in vain. And I get asked all the time, do you regret not starting your own family? I tell them no. I've got Faldil, got Regan and Aisling and their ankle-biters, and I've got you lot—how much responsibility does a man really need?

"Dark Elves do not fear death—it isn't and end to them, but a beginning. Life is beautiful, they teach, cherish every moment of it. But death comes for us all, in the end. You can't hide, but it isn't always such a terrible thing. It's a release, a long-awaited sleep.

"This is the legacy of Tiberia Morwyn, of the woman that I loved—_love. _And there is no greater show of devotion than a ghostfence. And she left it to _us, _her extended family. For what are we down here, but a mucked-up family? Do we not call each other Guild_brother_, Guild_sister? _Is there not honor among thieves?

"But you know, Dovah never really die—they are only lost to time. So when the next Dovahkiin is called out of the woodwork, part of Wulfarth, of Talos, of Tiberia will be a part of him. And I hope to the Nine Divines and every last one of the Daedra that he never has to make Ty's choice—herself, or her country?

"You know, sometimes I think the Daedra are more fair than the Aedra. Aedra say, 'you will do this because you must.' Daedra know, you do it _for _something. You need something worth dying for to be a Daedra Worshipper. And Tiberia found something in me, in us, in the Guild. In Vilkas, in Farkas, in the Companions. In Avalon, in Ondolemar, in the Dark Brotherhood. In Tolfdir, in Faralda, in the College of Winterhold.

"So how do you honor the memory of a woman like that? How do you honor someone with that much power? You pick up where they left off. You make their fights yours. You tell their stories, you sing their songs. And you _never _forget what she did for you; you _never _forget that sacrifice.

"We have been making Skyrim so costly for the Aldmeri Dominion, they are pulling out Thalmor by the battalion. _This _is how we honor our Guildsister through time! We will never drive the Dominion out in open, bloody battle. We _will _drive them out through their pockets! Her fight has become ours. And I'm a lot like Ty in the sense that war is in my blood—I'm a Clansman of Falkreath Hold, for Talos' sake! But I'll take what I can get.

"…Ah, forgive me. Ty always said I talk too much. So lads and lasses, raise your glasses, and raise them _high_. And drink to the Dragonborn, drink to the fact that this Guild has done what no army ever could, and drink to forget, even for a moment, the sorrows of this life.

"And may Shadows hide you, and Talos guide you."

**-Guildmaster Brynjolf of Falkreath, Great House Redoran**

**As told to the Riften Thieves Guild**

**25 of Evening Star, 5E 36**


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